


Damaged Goods

by Winterstar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Image, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Romance, Slow Burn, non-powered, talk of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 16:37:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 77,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12821625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: Steve Rogers’ life just might be in a shambles. His art studio closed and he screwed up his one and only chance to get a job at the Maria Stark Foundation as their Fine Arts Curator. Without an income how can he possibly help his best friend, a disabled Army Vet, or even keep his foster son, Ian?  His hopes are dashed for a career in art. He’s going to have to take the job at Shield security, but that means flying a desk as an analyst since he’s 100 pounds of nothing with asthma and a weak heart. It’s his only chance to stay afloat. But then the exasperating Tony Stark appears at his door with a second chance at the art job, a future, and quite possibly a romance of a lifetime. But is that romance doomed? Why does Tony always refer to his limited time as if he’s dying? And will Ian’s biological father, Zola, threaten everything that Steve hoped to build?The story of how damaged goods are not always second choice…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First - thank you to the mods for letting me participate. When I sent my draft in at 21k I said I was about 70% done and they asked if I could finish. I said absolutely. And now at 77k I did, but I WAY under estimated how long this was going to be. I also want to point out that you should never delete old stories that weren't working. This was one of those and I pulled it out, dusted it off, and found a way to make it work.
> 
> Second - and most importantly, I want to thank my artist, kaitovsheiji, who did two beautiful, tender, and wonderful pieces for this story. I think they really capture the gentle and tender moments in the story and the overall feel of the story itself. I know that kaitovsheiji had a lot on her plate with university and life in general, so thank you for taking the time to put together exactly what this story needed! Art is embedded in the story but if you want to take a look you can see the Spoilery links -  
> [here](https://kaitovsheiji.deviantart.com/art/Never-Felt-This-Way-716793136?ga_submit_new=10%3A1511576953) and [ here](https://kaitovsheiji.deviantart.com/art/Welcome-Home-716794589?ga_submit_new=10%3A1511577437)
> 
> Third - well I want to say this is my first attempt at a long story with skinny Steve. I didn't think I could do it, I never understood how much I identified Steve with his ability as a hunk of muscle and dorito mess. But this story taught me to look at Steve in a different light.
> 
> Fourth - I also wanted to say I turned Tony a little one his head as well. I looked at him and his issues and tried to pull out the saving grace from IM2 - his fatalistic view that he tries to hide. 
> 
> Fifth - I pulled some characters from Remender's run in 616 but I didn't tag this as 616 because I really see it as a MCU story. 
> 
> Lastly - thank you to thegraytigress for her beta - without it the story would have been poorer and not as rich overall.
> 
> Thank you and enjoy!

“How’d it go?”

Steve tugs at his keys to get them out of the lock of their walk-up apartment in Brooklyn. Of course, the keys stick. They always stick. He growls at them as Bucky throws the question at him from the couch where he’s currently camped out.

“You do good in the interview?”

“Son of a -.” He kicks the door and it swings away from him as he yanks at the keys. The door slams against the closet, bounces back at him, but at least the keys are free. “Why the hell is the door locked?”

Bucky shrugs. He’s tucked up under blankets and now Steve has to worry if he’s sick again or not. That’s all he needs. Bucky acts like nothing is wrong. “We live in New York City, pal, not the country. I don’t know about you but I’m not too keen on getting robbed in my sleep.”

“You were sleeping? You were supposed to be taking care of Ian,” Steve says and tosses down his keys and his jacket. 

Lounging on the threadbare furniture they generously call a couch, Bucky leans back and puts his one arm behind his head. He doesn’t have a left arm or not much of a left arm to speak of. He’s supposed to be fitted for a prosthesis but the stupid VA can’t get its act together. “I am taking care of him. The little rugrat is taking his afternoon nap. You know what they say, sleep when your baby sleeps.”

“Ian isn’t a baby. He’s nearly four years old,” Steve says. “And he shouldn’t be napping. He’ll be up all hours of the night.” He needs to calm down – all this stress will just cause his asthma to go into action and he’ll spend the day in bed again. 

Bucky isn’t deterred. “What? You want him to be cranky? He wanted a nap. Maybe he’s getting sick. And you know your interview, like, lasted forever.”

Sick? Ian, sick? That’s all he needs. He does not like the sound of that. His son shouldn’t have to deal with the shitty healthcare that Steve can afford. “Shit, sick? He’s sick?”

“Hey, hey calm down. He’s gonna be fine. He had a sniffle. Probably the allergies the doc was talking about the last time we went in,” Bucky says.

“Really?” Steve pushes his hair back and then peers at the clock nailed up over the old-fashioned porcelain sink in the kitchen. “Shit. I’m supposed to go back to the art studio and clean out my stuff.”

“Old man Ross really riding your ass, huh?” Bucky stands up and goes to get his shirt that’s tossed over the arm of the couch. He manages getting it over his head fine but Steve still walks over and tugs it on, tying the arm off for him.

“Yeah, he’s not giving even a little bit. The rent’s way over priced for what I got.”

“He conned you pretty good.” Bucky’s still not one hundred percent. The last deployment took a lot out of him. “I can call up Nat and see if she can come by and babysit while we go clean out the place.”

Steve sighs and pinches at the bridge of his nose. “No, no, don’t worry about it. I got this one.”

Grabbing his jacket, he stops by the fridge on the way out of the apartment again. He swings open the door and frowns. “Looks like we are playing a prominent role in Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.” He’s hungry but first he has to make sure Ian’s fed. He scrubs at his face and then his hair. 

“Okay, what’s going on? What happened at the interview?” Bucky hangs his one good arm over the fridge door and raises an eyebrow.

Steve slaps him away and says, “Does it matter? I’m not getting the job.”

“You are the most qualified for that job. Why the hell not?”

“Well, first you have no idea if I’m the most qualified that they saw or not, and second, Stark hates me, and I mean with all capital letters. Stark HATES me.” He closes the fridge and goes to the cupboard. They have some macaroni and cheese. Ian loves the stuff, even if Steve thinks it is just plastic covered noodles. He can get the kid to eat it. He pulls it out, but of course remembers he needs milk to make it. “I’ll pick up some milk on the way back.”

He scoops up his keys but not before Bucky catches his arm to stop him. “Tell me what’s going on here, Steve.”

“I genuinely screwed up, completely screwed up the interview.” He releases a pent up breath. “But you know what? I don’t even think it was my fault. That jerk, Stark, damn it, I didn’t even know he was going to be there. I thought the interview was with Ms. Potts, his assistant. But no-.”

“You might want to change out of your one and only suit before you go to the studio and pack things up,” Bucky says and points to Steve.

“Oh, oh shit,” Steve says and the wash of defeat tides over him. “Okay, okay.” His art studio that he’d only opened up last season. Defunct. He’d wanted to feature new artists, not the up and coming ones that all the chic art studios show, but the early ones – the ones that never had a chance, like him. 

“Tell me why you think you fucked up.” Bucky follows him into the bedroom but hangs back at the threshold of the room. 

He tries to be quiet since Ian is sleeping and it’s the only bedroom in the flat. Quickly disrobing, he takes the time to hang up his suit and toss the shirt into the hamper. He can’t get it laundered and ironed; he’ll have to do it himself. His lack of viable salary makes it not an option. He’s used to it. It isn’t like Bucky and he have ever had more than two coins to rub together. 

Pulling out his jeans and a t-shirt with a faded American flag on it, Steve dresses. 

Blocking Steve’s way, Bucky says, “Well? What gives?”

“A whole lot of asshole, that’s what gives.”

“Your mouth is decidedly crude today.”

“I was in the army too, you know.” He doesn’t add, even if he had desk duty most of the time, because of his size and many ailments. He had been lucky that they’d taken him at all. “And if you’d had to spend the amount of time with Stark that I had to today, you’d be swearing so much Sister Mary Josephine would be rolling in her grave,” Steve says and plucks his leather bomber jacket from the coat rack. 

“Tell me what happened?”

“Can’t this wait? I have to get the stuff moved before Ross throws all my paintings on the sidewalk.” He makes a show of glancing at his watch.

“Everyone knows that Stark can be a bit of a diva-.”

“A bit? A bit?” Steve throws his hands up. “Let me tell you how much of a diva that stuck up son of a bitch is. I get there, you know, like fifteen minutes early. He makes me wait for forty minutes. I figure the man’s busy or at least I thought Ms. Potts is busy, no biggie.”

“And?”

“Then Potts brings me into this huge office and there he is, the man of the hour, acting like a total dick.”

“What? Why?” Bucky hangs his right hand on his left shoulder – a habit that he does because he can’t cross his arms, Steve is sure.

“He had this idiotic poster of himself by some fly by night craptastic artist, you know, what’s his name.” Bucky just shook his head at Steve – he never pays attention to the local art scene nor does he actually listen to Steve when he tries to explain it. “He’s going on and on about it, how wonderful it is and do I have anything in my portfolio as good. So I – God bless America – I left my portfolio there.” He spins around on his heel, hoping the black leather portfolio will suddenly and magically reappear at his feet. “Can this day get any worse?”

“Whoa there, Stevie boy,” Bucky says and reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. “Just take a deep breath. First things, first, get to the studio-.”

“No, I have to get that portfolio back, that’s some of my best work, Buck,” Steve says. He sighs and tries to fight off a headache. “I’ll call up Ross, tell him I’ll be there in an hour to clear out. I gotta go back to the Stark Tower and get my stuff. It’s probably at the lobby front desk anyway.”

“Can you call them and have them hold it there?” Bucky suggests.

“Good idea,” Steve says and pulls his phone out of his pocket as he heads to the door. “You’ll?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Go, you jerk,” Bucky says as Steve rushes out the door.

No matter how many times he calls the number he’d been given to set up the interview for the job managing the art and art acquisitions of the Maria Stark Foundation, Steve never ends up getting a real person on the line. He can’t lose his portfolio; it’s his life. But his studio needs to be cleaned out before Ross tosses everything. He ends up leaving a message for Ross and hoping the man has some decency.

Getting across town happens to be a trial that takes him more than an hour. He races through the door of the lobby for Stark Tower and runs to the reception desk. It’s nearly the end of the day and people are filtering out of the massive Tower in streams. He thinks about it – the Tower like a silver monument and the people in all different colors of clothing like ribbon streamers along its base. It would make a great abstract. He pushes the idea away and gets to the front desk.

“Is there, is there anything for me here?” He knows he sounds like a lunatic, so he back tracks and starts all over again. “I’m Steve Rogers, I was here earlier in the day and left my portfolio by accident?”

The woman, who reminds him of Roz from Monsters, Inc, one of Ian’s favorite Pixar movies, glares at him and picks up her pen, sucks her teeth and says, “Who are you?”

“Steve Rogers. I was here earlier. You saw me then,” he says and leans over the high counter. Steve’s short – shorter than most men and he can barely see her.

She snarls at him, scribbles down something that’s not even close to his name, and says, “I see many people during the day. You’re nothing special, Mister Rogers.”

He knows he’s nothing special – the nuns told him that along with his father all of his life. But the US Army saw something special in him – enough that he was accepted even though it was under special circumstances. He puts on his strongest voice and snaps, “That’s Captain-.” When she doesn’t react, he rolls his eyes at her.

“Roll your eyes all you like, Captain,” she says and the way she states his title turns it into an insult. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is you are leaving now.”

“I’m not. I left my art portfolio here,” Steve says, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “Listen, ma’am, I appreciate that you are doing your job, but the art portfolio is my resume, my key to success-.”

“Then you shouldn’t have left it here,” the Roz impersonator says. She raises her hand and a team of security guards come to escort him out of the building.

“Please, ma’am, can you just look in the lost and found, plea-.”

“Sir, we will have to ask you to leave,” the burly security guard says– who looks like every security guard Steve has ever seen in a movie. Are they cut out of a mold or something?

“I’m not trying to cause trouble. I just want my portfolio back,” Steve says and then one of the six men surrounding him grasps his arm. He jerks free and the second guard swings at him, but Steve blocks it with his arm and curls under the blow, to shoulder into the man’s vulnerable torso. He shoves forward and topples the man into the third and fourth guard as the other three guards scramble around him. Springing free, he jumps over the jumble of guards on the floor and pitches toward the exit. Being short has its advantages and he did learn how to fight on the streets of Brooklyn and in the Army.

He struggles to get his feet under him as one of the guards has the brains to try and trip him, but he only falters for a second before he skips over the guard’s attempt and bounds toward freedom. Like a battering ram he races through the open glass door and finds his way out onto the plaza. One of the guards follows and screams after him.

“Don’t come back or we’ll call the police!”

Steve back steps and finds his way into the horde of the people exiting the Tower, only to sink onto the side of the plaza fountain. His art portfolio. He glances back over his shoulder and grimaces. This whole day cannot get any worse. When his phone buzzes he knows he should just ignore it, but he’s a sucker and doesn’t.

The text message is loud and clear. _Rogers, since you have ignored my order to vacate the premises by 4 pm you leave me no choice but to remove your possessions._

“Damn it,” Steve says and jogs to the subway only to remember he brought their crappy mini-van that he bought off of one of Bucky’s old friends. It barely works on good days, but he needed it to haul his art supplies away. Turning on his heel, he goes back to the garage where he paid too much of the money he barely has to park for one hour and steers out into the congestion that is Manhattan. It winds up taking him another hour and a half just to get over the bridge to his studio in Brooklyn Heights. 

He parks the van in front of the building, and hops out only to realize he’s far too late. The windows are empty and there’s no sign of Ross. All of his supplies are gone, his studio closed. Everything is gone. All of his paintings, his computer, his furniture. He’d finally started to bank some of the money. He’d even started a lecture series on art history. People from the neighborhood had started to attend. But now it is all gone. Everything.

“Too late now,” Steve says and inhales. He needs to find out what Ross did with his stuff. Deciding it’s best to get this over with, he tugs out his phone and presses the connect button for him. 

“Ross.”

Everett Ross is a mean-spirited prick in Steve’s mind. “What did you do with my supplies, Ross?”

“Exactly what I told you I would do if you didn’t vacate the premises immediately.”

“This isn’t legal. You had no right to terminate-.”

“I had every right. The building belongs to me. You, Rogers, were just a small pebble in my path.” 

His laughter almost causes Steve to shut down the line. Gritting his teeth, Steve says, “Where did you put my supplies?”

“Where they belong, of course, Rogers. Your pathetic attempt at art deserves only one place to be displayed. In the garbage.”

Steve does close the line then and hurries around the back of the building, climbing over fallen trash in the alley way to the large dumpster. Hoisting himself up, he peers inside the dented metal container to see his art supplies, his canvases, his paints, his easels – all of it loaded and crushed inside the dumpster. It’s all he can do not to drop to the wet pavement and mourn the loss. Instead, he flips inside and tries to salvage what he can. There’s not much, but he works and tries not to feel the prickle in his eyes. Too many of his paintings have been torn or ripped, the canvases scratched. He loads them up onto the side of the dumpster anyhow. He digs through the sodden mess to find his paints, his brushes and finds his box of supplies, the hinges broken. 

In the end he’s not able to save as much as he would have liked, but he piles it all up and heaves it over the side. Because the load is so clumsy to carry, it takes him three trips to pack it into the van. After, he sits in the driver’s seat and lays his head on the steering wheel. The stench of garbage fills the van and he squeezes his eyes closed. He’s not sure what the heck he did to piss off the gods, but he might have to sacrifice a lamb or something to turn his luck around. How can he possibly make things better for Ian if he’s completely incapable of even supporting himself? 

Dreams are made to be broken. He knows that, but his mother always nourished his dreams. She always told him it was worth it, and always made him pinky promise that he would always try his best, always stand up to adversity. 

“Always, Ma,” he whispers and the cold ache in his belly reminds him that she’s been gone for years. He sits back and closes his eyes. He supposes he should have done the sane thing; he should have stopped the insanity of trying to be an artist and just done something more practical. 

“Practical,” he says and his phone is in his hand again. Considering Ian, he doesn’t have any real choice in the matter. He presses the numbers and waits as the line connects.

“Shield Security Systems, how can I help you?”

“Mister Coulson, is that offer still open?” he stops and starts again. “Sorry, this is Steve Rogers. Is the offer still open?”

“Captain Rogers, yes of course the offer’s still open. Shield loves to bring on a veteran, especially one of your status,” Coulson replies. “Can you stop by in the morning?”

“Sure, sure. What time?” 

“How about nine? We can get you situated and see what assignments are available for someone of your stature.”

“I don’t need any special treatment, sir.”

“Nonsense. You’re a war hero. You and your friend, what’s his name again?”

“Bucky- well, it’s actually James Buchanan Barnes, but Bucky for short,” Steve says but he’s not sure why he’s telling the manager for the biggest branch of security experts in the tristate area his friend’s real name.

“Is he looking for something as well?” Coulson asks. “I heard he’s an expert marksman.”

“Huh, yeah, he is, but he’s not-.” Steve pauses. “Sir, Bucky is still waiting for his prosthetic arm.”

“Still, why don’t you talk to him as well. We could really use the help,” Coulson says. “We have some big clients and need the expertise. We need honorable men like you and your friend. At the very least, he could train some of our security force.”

Steve grimaces and is quietly thankful that Phil Coulson can’t see him. “I’ll tell him. See you at nine?”

“Yes, great,” Coulson says. “Thanks for calling me back. We’re excited to get you on board.”

Steve nods, presses the disconnect, and then sits back in his seat. He’s not giving up; he’s not giving up on his dreams. He tells himself this over and again as he navigates through the rush hour traffic and searches for a parking spot. He finds one blocks away from home, and feels like it fits – because he’s miles away from his dreams now.

When he gets home Bucky is in the bedroom playing with Ian and, for that Steve’s grateful, he cannot face anyone. He climbs up the stairs to the attic of the apartment building. The building owner, who also happens to be the one who put him in touch with Coulson in the first place, offered him storage space in the attic. He brings all of his ruined artwork and supplies up the stairs in a few trips. He has to use his inhaler twice. He’s not supposed to use it like that – it’s not a rescue inhaler but he figures it can’t hurt. 

There’s a tiny window facing the street, but he can see a small park in the distance. He can’t stand up and look out it, so he sits with bent knees staring out of the space. Eventually he has to pull himself together. His odd little family needs him. He finds his way down to the apartment and lets himself in. Ian, who’s sitting at the kitchen table, sees him and runs over to him nearly bowling him over. 

“Dadda,” Ian says and buries his face in Steve’s shoulder as he crouches down for him. Even though Ian isn’t his biological son, he still loves the boy like nothing else in this world or any other dimension. Ian winkles his nose. “You stink.”

Steve laughs and agrees, but then says, “Ian, have you been giving your Uncle Bucky a hard time?” He zerberts the side of Ian’s face until he giggles in screeches. 

“Hey, where’ve you been?” Bucky comes out of the bedroom and his eyes look bleary, exhausted, and Steve’s ashamed. Bucky’s injury still bothers him and Steve knows better than to drive him so hard. He sniffs the air. “And Ian’s right, you do stink.”

“I’m sorry. It took longer than I thought to get all of my art supplies,” Steve says.

“You get everything?”

Steve only shrugs, trying not to show his disappointment. “Everything worth saving.”

“Great,” Bucky says. “Nat’s coming over, and she’s bringing us out to dinner. So you need to shower.” He waves his hand in the air. “What the heck were you doing? Swimming in the Hudson?”

He hates it when Bucky treats him like a charity case. “Buck, you go with Nat. You two haven’t had a decent date in weeks.”

Ian moans a little in frustration. “I wanna go. Natty said I could go.”

“Natty- Natasha and Uncle Bucky need alone time,” Steve says. “Why don’t you go? We’ll be fine. We’ll have mac and cheese, pop some popcorn, and watch movies.”

“Incredibles,” Ian says and seems assuaged regarding not ruining Bucky’s date night.

“Aw, come on, you don-.” Bucky starts but Steve interrupts him.

“At least it’s not M-O-N-S-T-E-R-S again,” Steve says with a slashing motion to cut Bucky off. 

Bucky considers him and then relents. He tousles Ian’s hair and says, “Okay, you monster, I’m going.” He winks at Steve as Ian hops up and down.

“Monsters, Monsters!” The little nearly four year old jumps onto the couch as Steve snarls at Bucky.

“Thanks, Buck, I love you too!” Steve leaves the room and goes into the bedroom. The bathroom is tiny, the door hits the toilet when it opens. He strips down and jumps into the shower – what Bucky calls the coffin shower. He quickly scrubs, and the hot water fizzles on and off. He’s only in the shower for five minutes when it completely gives out and a spurt of cold water hits him. He yelps and jumps out. Turning off the faucets, he makes a note to get the water heater checked again. He tosses his clothes in the hamper and tugs on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

When he enters the main living space of their apartment, Steve thumbs over his shoulder. “Hope you don’t want a shower. Hot water gave out.”

“Thanks for that,” Bucky scowls as he disappears back into the bedroom and the bathroom to clean up for his date. 

Steve sets about getting the mac and cheese, and then realizes he didn’t pick up any milk. He really needs to scrape together some money to go grocery shopping. As he rummages through the shelves of the pantry cupboard he hears a tap on the door. It swings open. 

“Hey, you muggle,” Natasha says and leans down even with her arms laden with recyclable bags. 

“I ain’t a muggle,” Ian says and plops down on the couch, determined to be in a snit.

“Sure you aren’t,” Natasha replies and dumps the bags into Steve’s arms. “Groceries.”

“Oh,” Steve says and his face warms as he blushes. 

“You might want to remember to feed the kid once in a while,” Natasha says and catapults over the back of the couch to sit next to Ian. “Hey, you think you’re a wizard?”

“Well, I ain’t from around here, that’s for sure,” Ian says and she begins to tickle him, much to his delight. 

Steve loads the bags on the counter and is about to abandon them when Natasha calls out, “Put them away, milk and ice cream in the bags too.”

“Ice cream!” Ian gasps between fits of laughter.

“You didn’t have to do this.” Smiling, Steve turns back to the task at hand. He owes Natasha so much. She’s been a force at the VA trying to get Bucky his new arm and, at the same time, she carts food to them every couple of weeks. She appears at his side as he finishes up putting all of the food away.

“I need to repay you,” Steve says.

“No, you don’t, Rogers,” Natasha says. “Don’t insult me. I don’t like to be insulted. Besides.” She looks over her shoulder at Bucky who’s currently setting up the television with the old DVD player for yet another viewing of the masterful Monsters, Inc. “You’re helping me, too.”

“Not as much as I would want to,” Steve says and leans with his back against the counter. “Coulson offered to talk with Bucky about a position at Shield. I haven’t mentioned it yet, but you could-.”

She grasps his arm an excited gleam in her eyes and then she says, “I’ll see what I can do.” Walking into the living space, she says, “Come on Buck, we’re going to miss our reservation.”

“Reservation?” Bucky says and looks down at his t-shirt and jeans.

She grabs his arm and tugs him along. “Bye, Steve. You get the couch tonight. Bucky’s not going to make it home, I don’t think.”

He waves to her and then, as the door closes, turns to Ian and asks, “Do you want strawberry milk with your dinner?”

“Strawberry mac and cheese!”

“Yuck,” Steve says and blanches at the thought of it. Ian dances around singing about the wonders of strawberry mac and cheese. Steve’s doomed. 

After Steve suffers through eating macaroni and cheese made with strawberry milk, fills up with popcorn and watches Monsters Inc for maybe the twentieth time, he bathes Ian (thankfully the hot water heater kicks in again) and tucks him into the only bed in the apartment. 

“Dadda?”

“Hmm?” Steve asks and pulls out a few books for Ian. 

“Do you remember my Momma?”

Steve settles on the bed and strokes back Ian’s hair. The kid needs a haircut desperately, but he wants his hair to be like Uncle Bucky’s. “No, not really.”

“But you remember how my real Daddy was?”

Steve swallows and nods. It’s only been a little over a year since he fostered Ian. Ian’s father had been abusive and beat both Ian and his older sister, Jett. Unfortunately, Jett ran away when her father went on a rampage, killing their mother and trying to kill Ian in the process. Steve had only casually known the family from the neighborhood. When he’d heard the shots, he’d run inside the house and had been able to rescue Ian before Zola killed him. 

The events still haunt the little boy. 

Steve’s lucky that Social Services and Child Protective Services have allowed him to keep Ian. It helped that Ian refused to eat or drink or talk when they tried to separate him from Steve. The Social Worker in charge of Ian’s case, Sharon Carter, seemed to have a soft spot for the boy and put him in Steve’s care after the required qualifications and paperwork had been filled out for fostering. 

“Yes, Ian, I do,” Steve says and slips his arm around the boy. “What’s this about?”

“Do you think I’ll be like him? Do you think I’ll be evil?”

Steve hugs him close and buries his nose in the boy’s hair. “No, buddy, you’re not going to be evil. Evil is a choice; people aren’t born that way.”

“But he was,” Ian says and his eyes are wide and luminous and so frightened of the truth it terrifies Steve.

“Not you, never you,” Steve says and picks up a book to distract him. “How about Green Eggs and Ham?”

“Sam I am?”

“Yeah, Sam I am.”

Ian’s smile sparkles and it’s worth every penny Steve has to earn, beg for, or cajole out of people. He reads through the story, knowing more of it by heart every time he reads it to his foster son. Once he finishes, Ian cuddles down under the blankets and closes his eyes, tired. Before he falls away to slumber, he mumbles, “I want to be like you, I want to be like Cap’in Amer’ca.”

Steve kisses his temple and shakes his head; what is Bucky feeding him? He slips out of the room and closes the door. It creaks but Ian sleeps through it. Going to the kitchen he fills up the kettle and plucks out a teabag from the tin canister on the counter when a rapping on the door interrupts him.

With a glance to the clock, he pads over to the door and peaks through the hole. He frowns because he doesn’t see anyone. As he opens the door, he confronts a man bending over and placing an art portfolio near the door frame.

“Oh,” the man says and startles a bit.

“Wait, what are you doing here? How did you find out where I live?” Steve says as he gapes at Tony Stark delivering his art portfolio to his door step. 

Stark spins around on his heel as if Steve is speaking to someone behind him. He stuffs his hands in his pants’ pockets; his jacket looks ridiculously expensive as does his silk dark red shirt and tie. 

“Rogers?” Stark says and picks up the art portfolio, shoves it into Steve’s grasp, and then does an end run around him to get into the apartment. “Thought I’d stop by and we could go over your portfolio. A portfolio I heard you put up quite a show about in the lobby of my building. I heard it was a site to behold. My burly guards against you and you won!”

Steve closes the door and follows him inside. “About that I’m so-.”

“You knocked out a few guards and ended up embarrassing the rest. I should press charges, but I can’t get over the footage. It’s too fun to watch. Wait, wow, you live here?” Stark says as he surveys the small one bedroom apartment.

“Yes, I live here,” Steve says and he’s not sure if he should be insulted (he should) or if he should be stunned that a billionaire saw fit to come all the way to his apartment to deliver his portfolio instead of just sending it by courier. 

“I’m sorry,” Stark says.

“No need, but thanks for bringing it back.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry about the fact that you live here, not about the portfolio. You left it behind. That was your own fault.” He spots the kitchen sink. “God is that from the 1940s. I think I saw a sink like that in that movie, The Christmas Story. Does your kid brother hang out underneath it?” He goes to open the cabinet under the porcelain sink but Steve slams it shut.

“Excuse me, but what are you doing here?”

“Look at that, you have the stove to match,” Stark says and turns one of the knobs. He’s completely wrong though; the stove is from the 1970s and is a horrid avocado green color. “I think my mom liked this kind back in the day. These are antiques. Tell me you’re into antiques and that’s the reason you live in such -.”

“Don’t,” Steve says and holds up his hands. He’s trying not to punch the man. “Don’t go on and on about how poor I am. I’m pretty well aware that I’m not a billionaire like some people.”

“I wasn’t, I didn’t mean-. Pepper always says that I need to refresh my people skills. Usually I’m pretty good with the people. I mean, you have seen my latest headlines, right?” He places his hand on his chest and flinches a little. “Excuse my being me.”

“Ah.” Steve feels a little dizzy with this billionaire walking around his apartment, randomly shifting through his stuff, picking up the pillows on the couch, the pillows and the blanket folded neatly in the corner where Steve normally sleeps if Bucky stays the night. 

“Um, could you please not touch my stuff?” Steve places the portfolio in the corner of the closet near the door and then joins Stark as he rifles through a stack of books.

“Boy, you like World War Two history a little too much,” Stark says and then goes to the one corner of the apartment that Steve’s designated as his own. 

The rest of the place has kid written all over it, with stuffed animals, matchbox cars, robots, Transformers, a few Barbies (Ian loves Wonder Woman), and comic books strewn all over the place – but the one corner behind the television is where Steve notched his small easel when he works at home. As Stark wanders over to the corner with the easel, Steve leaps over the couch and knocks his hand away. 

“Excuse me, but why are you here again?”

“Just trying to get a fix on your qualifications,” Stark says and peers around Steve, trying to get a look at the canvas propped on the easel. It isn’t really anything yet. Steve had just started it.

“I thought I didn’t get the job, Mister Stark,” Steve says and places his hand on the alcove’s wall to block him from moving any further into the small space. 

Stark isn’t deterred but he does move over to the kitchen, opening drawers, looking through cupboards. “It’s Tony, and do you have anything to drink in this place?”

“I don’t usually drink,” Steve answers and hurries to the kitchen to close the drawers that Stark – Tony – whoever – leaves open. “But water, I have water.”

“What? AA? You don’t look like the type but who am I to judge right?” Tony picks up a stuff toy from the couch and spins it around. “Strange tastes as far as decorating is concerned, but Pepper tells me that fine arts and interior design and crafty stuff is completely different.”

“Thank you for the portfolio, but you don’t have to stay.” Steve thinks he might have walked out of Ian’s room into the Twilight Zone when he answered the door. “Hmm, like you can leave.” When Stark doesn’t leave but plays with one of Ian’s Transformers, Steve says, “Why are you here again? I thought the interview ended and I didn’t get the job.”

“Nope, wrong on both counts,” Tony says. “Interview is still going on. Do you have a fetish for stuffed animals? Because I guess I could overlook it, but Christ you have a lot of them, and Transformers, too. I like robots, and mechanical things, do you?” He quickly finishes putting Optimus Prime into his truck form. 

“Why. Are. You. Here?” Steve says and attempts to spell out each word as simply and plainly as possible. 

“I thought that was pretty clear,” Tony says and collapses on to the couch. “Surprisingly comfortable. I’m not going to get bugs or anything.” He looks up at Steve with a flash of a smile – smile that Steve might just want to melt into. He shakes the feeling away and remembers to act indignant.

“What? Bugs?” Steve screws up his face. “Get out, get out.” He might say it a little too loud, he might feel the pulse in his temple throb, he might hear the rush of his blood in his ears, but what he definitely does hear is Ian crying. “Damn it.”

“Is that a cat?” Tony leans forward as if to leap at an unsuspecting cat. 

“No,” Steve snaps and crosses the room to Ian’s door, but before he gets there the door opens and little Ian is standing in the door way, mouth open, and eyes watering with tears. 

“Dadda?” Ian says and sniffles. “I heard yelling. Is he here? Is he here to take me away?”

“What is that?” Tony says and points to Ian as if he might be some kind of strange creature. Steve is oddly reminded of Monsters Inc and Boo.

“This is my son, Ian,” Steve says and bends down to pick him up. “Now, if you could let yourself out, I need to put him back to bed.”

“You have a son?”

“Please, Mister Stark, good night,” Steve says and waits as the man loiters in his living room, before finally he walks to the door and opens it. Satisfied as he hears the door close, Steve brings Ian back into the room and lays him down in the bundle of blankets. “Go to sleep. Tomorrow you’re going to your new pre-school.”

“I thought we didn’t have money for it,” Ian says.

“We have enough for the school. Now shush,” Steve says and waits as Ian blinks and yawns.

“I like that you call me your son,” Ian says, and it hurts that Ian understands so much.

“Well, you are,” Steve says and reminds himself to call Sharon tomorrow to find out about the adoption proceedings. If he doesn’t have a job, it won’t go well. 

“Hug?” 

Steve snuggles into Ian’s open arms and holds him close until his arms fall away and Ian drops to sleep. He disengages, tucks the blankets around Ian, and then leaves the room only to have to quell a bark of surprise to find Tony in his living room.

“What are you still doing here? I asked you to leave.” Steve closes the bedroom door as softly as possible to ensure that Ian isn’t disturbed again.

“The interview isn’t over,” Tony says and folds his hands. “Though it would be nice if you offered me something to drink. It’s kind of rude for you not to.”

“I said I had water and I didn’t ask you to come here. In fact, I’ve asked you to leave,” Steve says and stalks to the door. Opening it, he gestures to the hallway. “Please leave.”

Tony considers him, but then stands up and walks to the door. Before he opens it, he says, “I brought you your portfolio back, you know.”

“Yes,” Steve says and knows he should be grateful. The man must be busy. He’s a billionaire for heaven’s sake. “Yes, and thank you for that. I appreciate that you came all the way over here to give it back. It was thoughtful of you.” He hopes his mother in heaven will be satisfied with his speech. 

Tony thins his lips, waits for a second, and then pulls the door open. Both of them jerk at the sight of Pepper, Tony’s assistant standing at the door, ready to knock. 

“Oh, I- I’m sorry.” She steps around Tony and offers her hand. “Virginia Potts, we met earlier today.”

“Much earlier. Do you people know it’s night time? Normal people don’t go visiting after nine-.”

“Is that a rule we don’t know about, Pep, because I’m definitely blaming that one on you. You’re supposed to tell me these things.” Tony looks at her fondly throughout his tirade. 

“We’re sorry for intruding so late, Captain Rogers,” Peppers says but before he’s able to correct her regarding his title, she ushers Tony to the door. “Happy’s waiting outside.”

“I don’t think I’m finished here,” Tony says.

“You are now,” Pepper says and scoots him to the staircase. Tony glances at Steve once, winks at him, and then skips down the stairs. Pepper turns back to Steve. “I’m sorry, Captain. We didn’t mean to intrude. Tony wanted to bring the art portfolio back and discuss with you about a second interview.”

“Oh, I thought the first-.” Steve scratches at the back of his neck. “I mean, it didn’t go well.”

She smiles and her kind eyes capture him. “Mister Stark has a tendency to overwhelm people. But I assure you, he is interested in your work.”

“I’m sure there are other candidates-.”

“Mister Stark canceled all of the other interviews. He would like to discuss the position with you,” Pepper says. “Would you be able to make it tomorrow, say nine in the morning?”

“Oh, I-.” Steve shakes his head. “I have another interview-.”

“Cancel it,” Pepper says and offers him a tilted smile. 

“I can’t,” Steve replies. “I need the job.”

“You’ll have a job,” Pepper says and waits. She’s obviously a force to be reckoned with and a woman who gets what she wants. 

“I can’t assume that. Sorry, Ms. Potts, but after what happened today – Mister Stark didn’t seem all that interested in my work – I need to be rational about what I plan to do and not do,” Steve says. He doesn’t know how to speak with people who have it all, who don’t understand what it means to be excited about finding a dime on the sidewalk.

Pepper studies him, her eyes not unkind, but at the same time calculating in a gentle way he’s never seen before on business people. “Okay, then. How about you come over at lunch time? Say around one?”

He wants to say no. He doesn’t need the aggravation, but he doesn’t want to be a high-priced security guard either. His dream is to be an artist and, at least, the Stark Foundation offers a more direct pathway. His mother told him to never give up.

“Okay, but I can’t promise I won’t have a job by then,” Steve says. The reality of the situation dictates that if Steve is offered a job, he would have to take it. His life is not his own anymore. And he wouldn’t give up Ian for the world.

She tilts her head and says, “You’re that good they would hire you on the spot?”

He feels the heat of the blush and only shrugs several times to try and work off the steam. She giggles and it’s a nice, sweet sound, not malicious. 

“Pep, are we going? Dying man here. Have to get my affairs in order,” Tony calls from the vestibule below them. 

Pepper leans over the rail and says, “Coming. Trying to fix the mess you’ve made.”

“And you’re a darling for it,” Tony says.

Steve tries to peer around Pepper and down to vestibule, but it seems too intrusive so he stops and focuses on Tony’s assistant instead. 

Turning back to him, Pepper says, “Thank you. See you at one, and, Captain, come hungry.” She winks and descends the steps as his neighbor across the hall opens the door. 

“Keep it down, willya, Rogers?”

“Sure, sure, sorry,” Steve says and the shorter, much hairier man nods.

“Hey, she’s a looker. She free?”

“I don’t think so. I think she’s with him.”

The man whistles. “Too bad, she might like some of this.” He grabs at his crotch at which Steve grimaces. “Hey, you want I come over and check out your ancient computer, see if I can figure out your issue?”

His computer hasn’t worked in weeks. “Thanks, maybe later in the week. See you, Rocket.”

“Roc. My name is Roc,” says Rocket who reminds Steve of a raccoon for some reason – maybe it’s the fact he dips everything in his drink before he eats it, or maybe it’s the pointy nose or the hair wisped out of his ears, but he definitely has raccoon in his family line. Yet that’s nothing compared to his hippy, tree-loving roommate. 

“Night, Roc,” Steve says and quietly closes the door. He sinks onto the couch and stares at the ceiling. He’s not sure he’s had such a day since his time in the Army. He shifts around and reaches to turn off the lamp. The room isn’t entirely dark. The street lamp shines into the room, bright and yellow. As cars drive down the street, the lights change and he watches the yellowy gold as it filters across the room. Light and shadow have always claimed his mind as an artist. As he lies there, sleep claims him.

The horror begins. The rush of images leaves him frigid with the cold ache of war, of seeing his buddies blown to pieces, of civilians dying in his arms as insurgents try and take their position. Even in the heat of battle, the desert is unforgiving, and the coldness creeps through his bones. This is what war and memories do to him. They freeze him until he’s stone and cannot move. His arms are heavy and the mortar blasts around him come closer and closer, and he’s paralyzed as Bucky screams and the shell hits too close, far too close. He can never help, even though he’s right there in the action. His body is too frail, too thin. His buddies scream, Bucky begs, and Steve is helpless. Useless.

Someone grabs his arm and jostles him. He jerks to the side and then he hears his friend’s voice. “Hey, it’s okay. Wake up.”

Blinking the images away, he inhales and tries to find his surroundings again. For a second he thinks an asthma attack might hit but Bucky’s rubbing his back, getting him to calm down. “Hey, Buck.” He scrubs at his face, trying to push the sleep away.

“Another bad one?” Bucky says and goes to the fridge. He gets out the milk, a glass, and pours some for Steve. He brings it over to Steve and waits for him to take it. “Drink this.”

“Milk?” 

“Drink it, you jerk.” 

“Always nice to be henpecked by you, always nice.” Steve take the glass of milk anyhow and drinks it. “Better than strawberry mac and cheese.”

“Ew,” Bucky says. He flicks on the lamp by the couch. “You should have come out with us.”

“Maybe,” Steve says. “Why are you back here? I thought you’d be staying with Natasha tonight.”

“Nah, not tonight. She had a call from a friend. It looked like an all nighter.” He settles on the arm of the couch.

This reminds Steve of Coulson’s offer to Bucky. “You know, Shield wants to interview you, too. They’re interested in your marksmanship.”

Bucky stands back up and keeps his back to Steve. “I can’t be a marksman anymore. I don’t have two arms.” He’s rigid, a wall of refusal. 

“Come on. Look at me. They want me and I’m ninety pounds of nothing,” Steve says and follows Bucky to his feet. “You can’t sit around here all day and night, Bucky. You have to do somet-.”

“Stop. Stop it both of you,” Bucky says and spins around to face Steve, his expression tortured and fractured. “Nat’s just like you. Just stop. I can’t be a marksman at all. I can’t even hold a damned spoon without the shakes. You know that.”

Steve sets the glass down and raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, I’m sorry. You can have the couch.” He heads toward the bathroom.

“Hey, you can take the couch. You have the interview tomor-.”

“No, you get the couch. That’s what we agreed on. I got the floor. Like it better anyhow.” He doesn’t leave it up to debate. He stops at the doorway to the bedroom. “You know I’m not trying to make you feel bad, Buck.”

Bucky places his one hand on his opposite shoulder, massaging his collarbone area. “Yeah, I know it. It’s not – it’s not you. It’s me. I-.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything. You’ve been there for me every single time I was sick. If it wasn’t for you, hell, I’d probably be dead.”

Bucky only presses his lips together in a hard line and looks away. A part of Steve gets it, the longing to go beyond, to get beyond ailments. He’s still amazed he was ever allowed in the Army, but then again when they found out about his special skill set, they scooped him up through a special program to bring on scientists and antiquities experts. Didn’t mean he could fight, but it meant he could change things. Help. 

“Yeah, well you ain’t ninety pounds of nothing anymore, are you? What, did you hit a hundred?” Buck teases.

“Oh shut up.” Steve pulls out his sleeping bag from the closet in the bedroom and then returns to the living room. Bucky stretches out on the couch with a throw.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Night.”

“Listen, I’m sorry.”

In the dark shadows of the night, Steve shakes his head. “You got nothing to be sorry for.”

“Yeah, yeah I do.”

Steve leaves it at that. He has too much to think about and too much to worry about (including Bucky) to sleep, but he does finally snatch a bit of quiet sleep near the breaking of day. In the morning he showers and dresses in his best khakis and a button down blue shirt. He slips on the only jacket he owns. Ian wakes up as he finishes dressing and Steve gets him cleaned up and ready to go to the pre-school.

“I’ll take him,” Bucky says as Steve pours the milk into the Cheerios for Ian.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, no problem. You said the chick’s name is Darcy?”

“Don’t call her a chick. She’s liable to Taser you or something,” Steve says and knots his tie. “Thanks.” He leans down and kisses Ian on the crown of his head. “You need a haircut, squirt.”

“Uncle Bucky!” Ian says and jumps up on the chair. He bats his spoon around like he’s fighting imaginary bad guys. 

“Uncle Bucky’s a bad influence,” Steve says and checks the time. “I should go.”

“Go, go, I’ll get him there,” Bucky says as he trudges off to the bathroom. “Have a good day, dear.”

“Jerk,” Steve says and exits the apartment. 

Taking public transportation, Steve gets across town to Manhattan and Shield’s headquarters in time with a bit to spare so he buys a coffee and waits in the outer room of Coulson’s head office. Coulson calls him instead of an administrative assistant. Coulson glances at Steve with an expressionless face. It’s worse than what he gets most of the time, which is usually condescending and little bit disgusted like the time Bucky and Steve went to Coney Island with two girls. The one girl was supposed to be Steve’s date – she wouldn’t even touch the peanuts he offered her like he had some kind of contagious disease. 

Either Coulson expected Steve to be small or he hones a great ability keep a stoic expression. Steve takes the chair that feels too big for his shoulders and he sits forward. Thankfully, he can still keep his feet on the floor.

“I’d offer you coffee, but I see you already have some?” Coulson says and picks up his carafe with steaming black coffee in it.

“Oh, yes, please, this is a little too-.”

“Extra special?” Coulson takes the paper cup and sets it next to the sink near the small bar in his office. “I get it. I like my coffee plain and simple, too.”

Steve smiles and Coulson hands him a mug of coffee. “Anything in it?”

“This is fine.” Steve says and takes a sip. It’s an Italian roast so it’s strong but smooth. He smiles and puts it on the small table that is to the side of the main desk working area. Coulson takes a seat at the table as well.

“I have to admit, Captain, I’ve been a fan of yours for a long time,” Coulson says, and places his mug on the table between them untouched. 

That’s a surprise. Most people outside of the military have no idea about his special skillset. “I’m not sure-.”

“You’re one of the most decorated war heroes from the Afghanistan and Iraqi Wars. It’s hard to miss in our business, someone so renowned.” Coulson steeples his hands. “The fact is that most people have no idea about you.”

“I’m just a kid from Brooklyn, and I did my duty, sir.”

“Yes, but far beyond expectations,” Coulson says. He picks up a tablet from the table and clicks it open. “I read your file. You were the underdog, the scrawny kid, sick all the time. But you went succeeded anyhow and went beyond what people thought – you saved many lives in the field.”

“As I said I did my duty.” Steve bows his head; he can never take a compliment easily. 

“And I think that says a lot. I also know from a mutual friend that you had a hard time following orders,” Coulson says and his eyes are sharp, but not judging.

“I did what I had to do. When you’re in the field sometimes changes and modifications to existing orders have to be done.”

“From what I understand you weren’t supposed to be in the field,” Coulson says as he flips through a tablet. 

“No, not really,” Steve admits. He’d been allowed to join the Army under an Act to increase the intellectual expertise of the military called Demonstration Ability and Expertise Act. It allowed for a parallel force of scientists, artists, and other experts to be part of the military but not enroll in the combat units. As such, Steve joined as an artist and an antiquities expert – he has college degrees in both fine arts and art history. It wasn’t exactly what he hoped for, but it allowed him to serve.

“You were ordered to stay back in your analyst seat but you didn’t. He went to help save a trapped unit in a small village with a known terrorist.”

“I choose a different route, I know,” Steve says. He straightens his shoulders. “The Army allowed me to enlist even with my health problems, sir.” Even with the special program, he had to have a waiver to be allowed into the Army. “They did it because I have a special ability-.”

“Eidetic memory that extends to beyond sight,” Coulson says as he squints at the screen. “You have the ability to remember sounds, sights, even smells.”

Steve rubs the armrests of the chair. “Yes, sir. It enabled me to recreate detailed maps of enemy territory. I just have to take a look at it once. They did fly overs most of the time.” This is all declassified now, since he’s out of the service. “Drones and satellites didn’t get as much detail as I did.”

“And then you could analyze it. Put all the data together to give an overall picture. Much more than drones can do,” Coulson says. He taps his temple. “You were recruited as an artist and expanded your horizons. Impressive. The power of the mind. I heard your strategies and tactical prowess gave you the nickname Captain America.”

Steve suppresses the smile. “Yes sir. I entered into the service after college. I earned the official rank though.”

“You also received awards for your sense of honor and respect for the local population,” Coulson points out. “Even though you were an analyst you spent time in the field.”

“Yes, sir, but truly it was a mission and my team – we all worked together. It was my duty to preserve the culture of the local area.”

“And I’d like to see that at Shield. I’d like to bring that sense of honor and respect back to the high security field.” He presses an icon on the tablet and the screen above the desk comes to life. “Shield has operations around the world. We’re contracted out by the government to provide security in some of the hot zones including the Middle East, South America, and some other targeted areas.”

“And what kind of work is it?”

“Mainly we’re looking for contracting support for military. You’d essentially be soldiering up,” Coulson says. “We want an analyst of your rank and abilities in the field. It would help both Shield and the military missions we support.”

Steve looks down as his heart sinks. While he doesn’t relish the idea of being a glorified security guard, the idea of going back into a combat zone curdles in his gut. “I’m sorry, Mister Coulson, but I’m not available to go out of the country on assignment.” He starts to stand. “I have a young son and I’m his only parent, so I won’t waste any of your tim-.”

“Wait, wait,” Coulson says. “While Director Fury truly wants you in the most difficult areas, I know for a fact he’d sell his mother, God rest her soul, to get you on board. We could offer you a security analyst – all local work – we could skype you into some missions. We need your tactical genius working for us.”

Steve clears his throat. One of the things he hates that people always focus on is his uncanny tactical aptitude. It’s not what he really wants to be known for at all. “I’m not sure.”

“It could work, Captain. With our teams we could bring you all of the information and whatever mojo you do will give us a better shot at success.” Coulson places the tablet on the table. “Shield has had some issues in past. We need someone of your stature to show that we can be trusted again.”

Steve remains standing and says, “I’m not a Captain anymore.”

“I would think you’ll always be a Captain.”

Holding onto his dignity is difficult, but he says, “If you would consider me for the local analyst, I could look at the details. That might be worthwhile, but as I said I have a young son and his care is my primary duty.” 

“Which is commendable,” Coulson says. “I’ve kind of taken a young recruit under my wings, so I have some idea how it is.”

“Is your recruit three years old and likes to stuff Legos up his nose?”

Coulson laughs and says, “Sit down, Captain. No, Daisy doesn’t stuff Legos up her nose at all.” 

Following direction, Steve sits down and they discuss the possibilities of making an analyst job that’s local work for both of them, the hours, and his roles and responsibilities. While Coulson cannot divulge the missions until Steve passes through the security checks and he’s on board, he does promise that Steve will not have to travel far, but there might be some overnights or long nights.

“I have a network of people who can help,” Steve says and agrees. 

Coulson stands up and Steve follows him. “Then I think we can bring you on board. You’ll probably have your first assignment within the month.”

Steve grimaces and says, “Is there any way to speed up the process?” If Sharon Carter, the social worker, comes to the apartment and he reports he doesn’t have a job, Ian’s placement will be questioned.

“We can probably bring you on board for some simple training exercises if that will help,” Coulson offers.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Then how about next week?”

“That would be great. Thanks, sir.”

“Phil. You can call me Phil, Captain.”

“And you can call me Steve.”

“I know, Captain, I know.” 

Steve cannot help the smile that spreads over his face. “Thank you, sir.” 

He departs and feels lighter than he has in weeks. He’s not sure about being a security analyst again, but he needs the paycheck. He won’t have Ian go into the system. Sharon’s been able to save them so far, but he doesn’t like the idea of putting her job on the line as well.

He has a little time before his meeting with Stark and he considers if he should call it off, since he’s taken a job. It can’t hurt to go and hear what Stark has to say. So he trucks on home to pick up his portfolio again. Bucky and Ian are gone and he hopes that Ian will have a good time in the new preschool. Darcy’s been nice and offered the tuition at a cut rate.

By the time he stops to finish up some errands regarding Ian’s custody with the lawyer he’s hired, he has to book it back to Manhattan to make the lunch date. He arrives at the Tower at five minutes to the hour and when he walks up to the lobby the same woman who refused to help him looks up at him and curls her lips in a snarl.

Before she can say anything, Steve says, “I have a one o’clock with Mister Stark.”

A look of defiance crosses her expression but she checks her log and the surprise turns her a nice shade of red. “You can take the private elevators to the penthouse. I’ll call one of the guards.”

“No need. I was here just yesterday,” he says and smiles as innocently as he can muster. He strides across the lobby, saluting to the guards taking notice, and follows the alcove toward the private elevators. Boarding, he says, “Penthouse.”

“Identification?”

“Steven Rogers. I have a one o’clock with Mister Stark.”

“Confirmed.” 

The lift doors close and the elevator rises. He’s not fond of the building from the outside, but the appointments of the interior are impressive. The polished nickel and glass shine in the elevator against the thick dark red, almost black, carpet. As the doors open he peers out before he steps into the penthouse. 

No one immediately greets him and he waits by the elevator, glancing around the large living space. There’s a stylish bar to the right of the elevator and a conversation pit lower to the left. The windows and view are unobstructed. It’s gorgeous if not slightly hollow in its personality.

“And what do you think, Captain?”

Steve jumps as Tony appears from conversation pit to the left side of the great room. “Very open, stylized, but less than personal. Gives me the feel of robotics for some reason.” 

Tony smiles at him and it’s dashing – it is the only word for it and Steve gulps down an intake of breath. He doesn’t need to fall for someone he’s never going to see again. Or would never have a chance with. He’s read the tabloids – a guilty pleasure. Stark goes out with the rich and famous and beautiful. He’s heard that Stark’s even dated the Crown Prince of Norway, Thor. Steve – all one hundred pounds of him with his asthma and his yearly bout of near death pneumonia – isn’t Tony’s type. Steve stays firmly fixed at the elevator bank until Tony gestures for him to descend the stairs to the more intimate area near the couches.

“Please, sit,” Tony says as he stands. “Would you like something to drink?” He strolls over to the bar. He’s wearing a Zeppelin t-shirt and jeans that are slung too low on his hips. There’s a smug of grease on his cheek and it looks like he hasn’t combed his hair since Steve saw him last. Everything about him screams sexuality. Enough that it loops the room around Steve. He’s used to his eidetic brain cataloguing everything, but for the first time in his life he doesn’t see how many glasses on the mirrored shelf behind the bar, or how many bottles, or even what the bottles are. The details obscure for him. 

He coughs. “Water, please?”

“What, nothing else?” Tony chuckles and pours them both a finger of Scotch. “I want to confess. I don’t trust a man that can’t drink a good Scotch with me.”

“I don’t usually drink.”

“Are you a Puritan?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Steve says and rankles at yesterday’s catastrophic meeting rattling in the background. Or maybe he’s just getting his hackles up because he knows that Tony is out of reach – so far out of reach he might be in the next county, or country, or maybe planet.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Tony says and hands Steve the tumbler. “Drink up anyhow.”

Steve sips the alcohol and it burns but it is mellow and thick on his tongue. “I want to confess to-.”

Tony interrupts. “Sit.” He takes a chair opposite the couch and Steve has no other choice but to sit on the couch with his portfolio leaning against the arm. “You were confessing?”

“Yes, I wanted to confess to you that I can’t take the job. I’ve already taken another job with a security firm.”

“I thought you were an artist,” Tony says, not at all discouraged by the news. He stretches one arm along the back of the chair and crosses his legs at the knee. 

“I am, but I need a job, Mister Stark.”

“Tony, Tony, call me Tony,” he says and calls out. “Can you believe he took a job already?”

“You had your chance,” Pepper says as she walks into the great room. “Captain Rogers, so good to see you again.” With care to the stilts for heels she’s wearing, Pepper walks down into the conversation pit. She offers him her hand as he stands up to greet her. 

“Look at him, Pepper. I want him.”

Rolling her eyes but not looking at Tony, Pepper says, “No.”

“Um, I’m right here and I’m not a piece of meat,” Steve says. But the idea that Tony actually said _I want him_ runs straight to his groin. Steve immediately sits. He doesn’t need that problem now. 

Tony snickers but it sounds more joyous than malicious. “Still.” He looks Steve up and down and Steve’s just about had it. This is quickly devolving into a fiasco like yesterday – but at least his first interview had actually focused on art and not other things. Resourcing the anger he felt from yesterday as well as the frustration, Steve’s able to get his desire under control. 

“I think I’ll be on my way,” Steve says and picks up his portfolio. He heads toward the elevators but before he presses the button Tony stops him.

“How much?”

Steve turns around and looks at him, puzzled. 

Tony repeats, “How much?”

Pepper stands there biting her lips and obviously her words back.

“I think I should be insulted,” Steve says, and for some reason he’s not. He’s genuinely interested in what the proposition is.

Tony stands up, rounds the couches and climbs up the few steps to the elevators. “I’m asking you how much are they paying you, because I will double it, and if that’s not enough, I’ll triple it. Hell, I’ll give you ten times the amount they want to give you for your services.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea-.” He should be fighting. He should be barking out swears and he should be leaving but instead he’s frozen. He tells himself he’s just intrigued, impossibly curious why a billionaire is interested in him.

“It is,” Tony says. “You see, I’m on a mission. I want to ensure my mother’s legacy and maybe a little bit of my own along the way. I want to spend the summer acquiring the best and the most beautiful works of art for the Maria Stark Foundation. I want to put together a museum of all these collected works, but I need someone to help me, someone with an eye to the aesthetic.”

Steve measures the looks between Tony and his assistant Pepper and then says, “I thought one of duties for Ms. Potts was to assist you in your art acquisitions.”

“Ms. Potts is going to take over as CEO of my company,” Tony says and steps closer. “I need someone with a critical eye. Do you have a critical eye?” He smirks. It’s obvious he knows Steve’s secret. 

“I think I do, but I’m not sure what you’re even asking me to do?” Steve says. In that moment the awareness of everything around him increases like electricity prickling through the air. 

Tony regards him and there’s a lost kindness in his eyes that Steve knows the media has never captured or fails to show. Both are a sin, a loss of the complexities of the man before him, and he’s suddenly intrigued. He wants to know more about him, even with the confounding actions – they only just add to the mixture. 

“I’m asking you to assist me over the summer, help me make the Maria Stark Foundation wing of the Metropolitan Art Museum worth it,” Tony says. He quiets as he continues. “My mother loved art. she lost all of her fears, her stress when she was involved in the art scene. Art was her life and I want to give her a legacy. This is the only way I have. A man such as myself can do a lot of things with his money. I do a lot, but this this is for my mom. I want to do this; will you help me?”

“Tony,” Pepper says and her tone, though admonishing, is also tender.

Tony glances at Pepper and says, “This is what I want to do, for as long as I have left.” Then he turns to Steve. “I need your answer, and I need it now.”

“I accepted a job with Shield Security this morning, and I don’t think I shou-.”

“Shield Security,” Tony says. “You ever hear of Grant Ward?”

Steve shakes his head. Tony wraps his arm around Steve’s shoulder and steers him back toward the couch. Tony gives him a little push to sit, and as he does, Tony says, “Well, let me tell you a little story. Grant Ward was one of the specialists at Shield. Pretty well respected by everyone there, made it through all the clearances.”

“Okay.” He has no idea what this story has to do with anything at all, but he’s willing to wait it out and give Tony the benefit of the doubt.

“I hired Shield for corporate security and Ward ended up being one of the agents assigned to me. He also happened to be one of the best corporate spies out there,” Tony says. “He stole tech and ended up giving it to his bosses at Hydra. You ever hear of them?”

Steve coughs a little; of course he’s heard of Hydra. Everyone’s heard of Hydra. The CEO Schmidt has run afoul of the law multiple times. Yet every single indictment has fallen flat. 

“Of course you have, everyone has,” Tony says. “Hydra and Schmidt hounded my father and are after me now and my newest tech. Grant Ward worked for them and got to me through Shield.”

“Shield knew about it?” Steve asks, finally finding his voice.

“No, Coulson didn’t. At least that’s what I understand.” Tony leans forward, his presence moving into Steve’s personal space. “They owe me, Captain. Shield owes me big. I can get it so you can spend the summer with me and still have your security job when the summer ends – if that’s what you want. Or-.”

“Or?”

“You can stay with me.”

“How come I feel like I’m being propositioned instead of being offered a job?” He gages how Tony reacts, but also how Pepper bristles. 

Even as Tony tries to talk, Pepper speaks over him. “Captain, you misinterpret what Mister Stark is trying to say.”

“What?” Tony says and bats her away – though he’s careful to be gentle about it. “No, you don’t. I’m not asking for your virtue, but maybe I am.”

Even if Steve had been injected with strength serum or something, there’s no way he could possibly control the flush of heat to his face. He wants to escape. “Sir, I don-.”

“No, no sirs,” Tony says. “The reason I want you, not want, but, yeah, want you is because of who you are. You’re determined, moral, have a ton of integrity as was demonstrated by our first interview. You didn’t back down when I said that the poster art was worth something. You said no to me. I want someone who’s honest and carries integrity close to his heart. I need someone like that.”

“What he means-.”

“I know what he means, Ms. Potts, and sorry for interrupting you,” Steve says but he’s still uncomfortable with the entire situation. The money is good. How moral and upstanding can he be if he sells out because of the money? “I’m not sure I can take the position. I have a young son.”

“Yes and you will move into the Tower with him for the summer. I am more than willing to pay for his care,” Tony says and waits as if it is the easiest thing in the world for Steve to drop his entire life and become his – his what? Steve still doesn’t know.

“I want to be honest with you,” Steve says. “The only reason I knew about the job with the Foundation was that my roommate’s girlfriend happens to work for you.”

“And?” 

“I thought you should know that I do have some connections and I used them to get the interview at the Maria Stark Foundation for the job,” Steve says and he’s not sure why he’s confessing, and he can tell from Stark’s confused look that he can’t figure it out either.

“Okay, that’s a good thing, Captain. You do realize that, right? You’re allowed to use your connections to try and get a job,” Tony says and narrows his eyes. “You don’t, do you? You think everything comes from hard work and getting your hands dirty.”

“I don’t exactly think that’s correct,” Steve says but can’t meet his gaze. “I just want to do the right thing.”

“Then come work for me. I want to honor my mother’s memory, and I need someone to help me do it,” Tony says. The sincerity of his plea worms its way into Steve’s heart. What he wouldn’t do to have some kind of memorial for his own mother. As it is he could only afford a flat stone in the cemetery. Steve gets it. He really does.

Steve peers up then and the intensity of Tony’s gaze bores into him, drilling farther and deeper than he’s ever experienced. He all but gasps and finds himself nodding and agreeing before he can get control of his mouth. “I would like to help you do that. Yes.”

Tony claps and breaks the spell. “Great! On the way you can save a little bit of that integrity and help me fix my legacy, too.”

Frowning, Steve shifts his attention to Pepper for a moment and glimpses a sharp but fleeting look of despair on her face. He wants to ask her about it, but then Tony continues, “I’ll have you moved in by this evening.”

“Wait, wait,” Steve says and jumps up to follow Tony around the penthouse. “I have things to deal with first. I can’t just-.”

“Sure, you can.”

“I have a roommate,” Steve spits out.

Tony stops at the bar and his tumbler clanks on the granite surface. “A roommate? Yes, yes, you mentioned the roommate and the girlfriend. I should give the girlfriend a raise. Who is she?”

“Hmm.” 

“She has a name, right?” Tony furrows his brow at Steve as he pours another Scotch. “Name?”

The pressure mixed with the confusion of the moment add up to Steve blurting out, “Natasha Romanov.”

“Ah, yes, one of the best,” Tony says. “Roommate?”

“Yes, my best friend,” Steve says. “He’s a war hero.” Steve’s not sure why he mentions it, but he won’t leave Bucky in the lurch, even though they aren’t officially roommates. Bucky spends as much time at Natasha’s as he does at Steve’s apartment. 

“Invite him along. I don’t care,” Tony says. 

Steve shakes his head and thins his lips. “I don’t know. My mother used to tell me if something is too good to be true, it probably is.”

“Well, she’s not wrong,” Tony says with a twinkle in his eyes. “You will find me a narcissist, an arrogant bastard. I drink too much and I sleep very little. I sleep around quite a bit, but I’m trying to cut down on that addiction.” He looks over to Pepper. “Am I missing something?”

“You get obsessive about your projects, you lose track of time, you don’t like to be handed things, and you’re a little bit of a hypochondriac.” She smiles and then adds, “And a terrible cook.”

Tony presents what Pepper stated with a flourish of his hands. “See, not perfect at all. Let’s get you moved in.”

“Okay, but give me a few days to-.” This is too fast, he knows. His logical mind has the brakes to the floor and engages the emergency brake as well, yet he’s speeding down a hill into a chasm. 

Tony guffaws. “What? You said yes. Pepper, he said yes. I win the bet.”

Knitting his brows together, Steve glances between the two of them. “Wait, what?”

“I bet Pepper you would say yes,” Tony smiles and Steve recognizes it from all the tabloids. Winning, sly, and arrogant, he didn’t lie about that. Yet, at the same time, Steve is drawn to the man if he’s honest with himself. So drawn it’s ridiculous. He doesn’t have a prayer this side of Hell. 

“But in a more serious vein, Captain Rogers, we will be drafting the paperwork for your assignment with your salary offer. I would expect you to sign it no later than twenty-four hours after receipt,” Pepper says and stands up as if she’s ready to escort him to the door.

“Oh, sure, right,” Steve says and while he feels like a sailor who hasn’t acquired his sea legs yet, excitement at the prospect of getting a job in the world of art thrills him and he cannot stop smiling.

“See, I told you, Pep. Look at that million dollar smile,” Tony says and he looks genuinely pleased with himself and strangely with Steve.

He should feel insulted and played with, but he doesn’t and shrugs it off because he’s finally getting his foot in the door when it comes to making his mark on the world of art. Plus it doesn’t hurt that a billionaire with the reputation of a playboy threw him a bone about wanting him, even it if was just part of the game to get him to sign on to a job offer.

“Thank you, Ms. Potts, Mister Stark-.”

“Tony, Tony, I will not be called Mister Stark,” Tony says and they are at the elevator. “Of course, Pep has to make everything official, and you need, what, a week to get all of your affairs in order and your roommate?”

“Yes, a week. I have a son.”

“Yes, met him, likes to cry,” Tony says.

“Only when he’s woken up in the middle of the night,” Steve says. They arrange the paperwork to be sent to Steve’s flat within the next day. When Steve leaves he’s buoyant, but he also realizes the rashness of his decision. But he’s been playing the part of the good soldier for too long. It’s time to shed that façade and move on with his life. Ian needs him to take risks if he even hopes to offer the boy something other than what he had in his life. Returning home is like letting the neighborhood kid stick a needle in his balloon.

“You did what?” 

He doesn’t expect Bucky to completely understand the turn of events, but the backlash is brutal as he stands up from the couch and glares at Steve after being told the plans. 

“It’s a great deal.”

“You didn’t even talk to me about it,” Bucky says and the seething rage rolls off him like smoke from a fire. “You promised we’d move in with him? What the hell? Yesterday you were telling me what nut case he is.”

“And I’m sure that’s correct, but-.” Steve pulls off his tie and hangs it in the closet. He has to get ready to go and get Ian from the preschool. He needs to make arrangements to ensure Ian’s spot is reserved. He hates moving his son around so much. He just put Ian in the new daycare and now he has to pull him. Having a daycare in Brooklyn when they will be living in Manhattan isn’t going to work at all. He sighs as Bucky berates him. He keeps his reaction even and calm – Bucky can go a little unhinged ever since the mission that changed everything.

“But shit, this is not happening. What the fuck did they feed you at this luncheon interview?”

“Actually I never ate anything,” Steve says and notices for the first time that he’s hungry. It’s too late in the day for lunch, so after he switches to jeans and a t-shirt, he heads to the kitchen for a snack.

“Steve,” Bucky says and grabs his arm. “Why are you doing this? It doesn’t seem on the up and up to me. You know, too good to be true. You’re usually more practical than this.”

He stops and wrestles with the reasons colliding in his brain, but can’t voice them. None of them make any sense. After the army, and Bucky, he can’t continue hoping for better. He has to leap, as far as and fast as he can because if he doesn’t the ice of inertia will bury him for today, tomorrow, maybe for seventy years or more. He needs to live today and stop fretting.

“Bucky, I need to do this,” Steve says and he hears the twinge of earnest pity in his tone. 

Leaning back against the counter, Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not coming with you.”

“Come on, Buck, this is a good deal. We can live in a place that actually has air conditioning in the summer and heat in the winter.” Steve pours a glass of milk, downs it, and then digs out the ingredients for a peanut butter sandwich. “We can eat something better than peanut butter and jelly for lunch. Ian, Ian will have all the best.”

“For how long?”

Steve drops the knife and says, “Does it matter? Can’t we have something nice for a change?”

“Are you nuts?” Bucky says. “This guy is an ace class asshole. You’ve seen the tabloids and what people tweet about him. Dude is seriously fucked up.”

“He wants me for an art job, Bucky. An art job. I haven’t had this chance at all. I graduated with a degree in Fine Arts and Art History. I went into the Army right after school. Come on, you know they wanted me for art to ensure antiquities. This is something - it’s something I’ve dreamed about my whole life,” Steve says. Even as he tries to convince Bucky, Steve recognizes that he’s not only pleading with his friend but also with his own psyche. He wants Bucky to agree with him. If he doesn’t, Steve will have to own up to the fact he’s essentially done something not only reckless and impulsive but insanely stupid. 

“I thought all you wanted to do was be like your dad,” Bucky says and his glower could kill someone. “Wanted to be a soldier like your dad.”

“I did, I was, but now I want to do this. You remember all the times I sat in that sick bed, and my ma would scrape together her last dollar to just buy me some crayons.” She gave her life for him. It might not have been dramatic or storied, but she did everything for him. She didn’t even take care of herself in the end because the cost of her care would have made him homeless after she was gone. The idea that Stark is doing this for his mother touches Steve more than he can admit.

Bucky cracks a smile. “Yeah, remember when my parents bought you those pastels. I thought you would have an asthma fit right there.”

“That was great of them, Buck. Now I want to do this.” He places the knife down and bows his head before he looks back up. “You have to know, I promised Ma.”

“What’d you promise her?”

“That I wouldn’t give up. That I’d find a way.”

“We are finding a way. It’s a good way, Steve,” Bucky says, and Steve knows it’s true. 

“Just for the summer,” Steve says. “I told Stark I would take the job on a temporary basis for the summer only. Then if I didn’t like it, I would book it back to Shield.”

“Like a trial basis?” 

“Something like that,” Steve says and prays silently that Bucky will support his pact with the devil. He decides the best way to deal with it is to put his cards on the table. “Listen, I know Stark’s reputation. Everyone does. It’s not like I’m making a deal with the devil. Truth is we don’t deserve the circumstances we’ve been thrown in. Look at us, Buck. I lost all my art because of Ross. You can’t even get the VA to get you a new arm, for God’s sake. We deserve something to go our way for once. Maybe this is it.”

“Maybe, but I don’t trust him.”

Steve shrugs and finishes preparing the sandwiches. He places the plates on the table with two glasses a milk. “Sit down and eat. And by the way, neither do I. Trust Stark, that is.”

“But you’re still taking the job.”

“For the amount of money he’s offering me, Buck, I could buy a building for my art school and studio and we could live above it.”

“Don’t get all dreamy on me,” Bucky says as he yanks out the chair to sit down. “I still think this smells a lot like Denmark.”

Steve chuckles as he swings the chair around and settles in it. “What do you got against Denmark.”

“Har har,” Bucky says and mows through one sandwich in a blink of an eye. “Better get god damned prime rib for lunch every day there.”

“Then you’ll come?”

“Someone’s gotta look after you, you punk.”

“Jerk.”

They eat the rest of the meal in silence. All the while, Steve categorizes what he needs to do over the next few days to get everything ready. He’s definitely going to keep the lease on the apartment. Hill gave him a cut rate on the flat and he doesn’t want to lose it, in case the job with Tony doesn’t work out or something untoward happens.

It hits him then something that Stark said offhandedly and repeatedly. After he drinks some of the milk, Steve puts the glass down with a clink on the old wooden table. “You know, he kept referring to himself as if he was dying.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve bites back any smart reply. “Don’t know.”

“What?” Bucky studies him. “You think it might be true, that he’s not just saying it for dramatic effect?”

He shrugs to clear away the uncomfortable tightness in his shoulders. He might have felt a little annoyed with Stark at first, but the way he smiled and invited Steve into his world sure didn’t add up to Stark being an asshole. The fleeting idea that Stark might be interested in him, that someone like Steve could capture the eye of someone like Tony Stark – well, that really colored his judgement of the whole situation as well. “He kept saying stuff about his legacy.”

“Well, the guy is old. Isn’t he turning like forty this year?” Bucky asks. 

Steve only shakes his head and glances at the clock. He needs to go and pick up Ian. As he cleans up their meager meal, stacking the chipped dishes in the sink and washing out the canning jars they use as glasses, he says, “I think we should keep the apartment. Hill gave us a good rate and I don’t want to lose it. Just in case.”

“In case he dies or in case you don’t like the gig?” Bucky can be a snarky bastard sometimes. That’s something that is similar to Stark from what Steve can tell. Bucky scratches at his left arm or what’s left of it. Steve’s going to have to check it again to ensure that it isn’t infected.

“Don’t like the gig,” Steve says and wipes his hand on the kitchen towel. He walks over to Bucky and gestures to him to roll up his sleeve and pull off the stocking on the stump. Bucky grumbles but he acquiesces. “What the hell have you been doing? You’re not supposed to use the arm as leverage.” He grimaces at the pressure sore on the edge of the stump. It’s not infected but it’s open and weeping a little. 

“Well I need a brace for the pushing.” He gyrates his hips. “A little booboo isn’t going to stop me from-.”

Steve holds up his hand. “Don’t. I don’t want to know about your love life with Nat. It’s not exactly after dinner conversation.” 

Bucky stands up and goes into Ian’s room. He calls from the bathroom. “You watch too much Downton Abbey.” Steve hears the water and follows Bucky into the tiny bathroom. He’s removed his shirt and leans down to wash the stump. 

Without a word, Steve helps him clean out the sore. He pulls out the first aid kit so he can spread some antibiotic cream on it just in case. As he folds a gauze and smears the cream on the surface he asks, “So when are you and Nat gonna make it official.”

Bucky does a little snort. “Nat isn’t the kind of girl who wants to be tied down.”

“Hmm, she likes to do the tying,” Steve remarks as he finishes dabbing on the cream. He looks over at Bucky. “You want me to tape it up or no?”

“Nah, just a clean sock will do.” Bucky doesn’t show it, but Steve knows he’s feeling it. He rarely if ever shows his stump. He hates people helping him out and he especially hates any type of special treatment. Anytime Steve attempts to help him without getting a clear okay from Bucky, they end up in a fight. “And she doesn’t tie up anyone.” He reconsiders his answer. “That I know of. At least.”

Steve smiles and then dries the sore. It looks better already and he covers it and then helps Bucky tie off his sleeve. Bucky’s still contemplating whether or not Nat ties up people or just kills them with her thighs –mumbling to himself as Steve collects his jacket and heads out the door to pick up Ian. For some reason his step is lighter, though he has too much to worry about and too much to do. 

Arriving at the brownstone that houses the daycare, Steve climbs the steps and presses the buzzer. He’s admitted, and then he goes through security sign-in to pick up Ian. Before he goes to Ian’s classroom, he finds Darcy in the office. “Hey, I wanted to talk to you?”

“Mister Rogers! Oh, great. I wanted to tell you, Ian’s a doll. He just fits in so well. The kids in the class love him-.”

Steve holds up his hands and frowns. “I’m really sorry, but I have to pull Ian from the school.”

Darcy, who’s sitting at a desk piled with papers but in front of a window with little paper hand prints taped to each window pane in a checkerboard pattern, stops. Her eyes go wide and she says, “But-.”

“Is it possible to save the spot for September? We’ll be back then,” Steve says. And he shouldn’t make promises, but the truth is he expects he will be back. His luck is just that shitty. “I have a job offer for the summer and we need to move to Manhattan for a short period of time.”

“Wow, Manhattan!” Her eyes go big. “That’s pricey.” She stands up, rounds the desk, and pokes at him. She has a bad habit of poking people a lot. He can’t stand it. 

“We’re getting a place with my employer. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

Darcy shrugs and then wanders back to her desk. Picking up a slinky she plays with it and says, “I can’t keep the spot. If one’s open then I can bring Ian back. I’m sorry to see you go. He’s a great kid.”

“Thanks, Miss Darcy. I appreciate it.” He would offer to pay for the spot while they are in Manhattan but that’s just not practical. He needs to save up some funds. He goes to retrieve Ian. When he picks up Ian, his son is all smiles.

As they walk home, Ian natters on about his day and the kids while jumping off people’s stoops as they circle back to their flat. “I really like the school, Dadda.”

“Well, you might not be going there,” Steve says. And why the hell did he use might? He’s not going to be going there. That’s just the thing. Steve has to commit in his head. 

“No?” Ian stops dead on the stoop. “But I- I like it. It’s fun and they got a big comput’r that works. Not like ours. It works.” 

Steve goes to his son and kneels in front of him. Holding onto his waist, Steve says, “I know and I’m sorry. You just started there. But this is a big opportunity for Daddy. Do you know what an opportunity is?”

The little boy with his round cheeks, his too long dark hair, and his long eyelashes over dark eyes, shakes his head. When he says no his lips for a perfect o. 

“Opportunity means chance. Daddy has a chance. If we take this chance, then when Ms. Carter comes to check up on Daddy and Ian, she’ll see that Daddy has a good job and a nice place to stay. She’ll let me be your true daddy.”

Ian’s eyes grow bright. “My true Daddy?”

Steve nods and smiles. “Absolutely.”

“Then I be like you? Good?” Ian asks. The anxiety bubbles up on his face. The little boy definitely does not have a poker face. Every little upset crosses his features and it stabs a dagger into Steve’s heart.

“You’re already good, Ian. Your father doesn’t define you,” Steve says.

Ian nods but there are little tears at the corners of his eyes. Steve hugs him close and doesn’t pay any attention to the foot traffic or the sound of the taxis and cars streaming by them. He kisses the top of Ian’s head and stands up. “Come on, let’s go home and eat strawberry mac and cheese.”

Ian screws up his face and then sticks out his tongue. “Ew.”

“Hey! You ate two bowls last night,” Steve says as he grips Ian’s little hand. 

“Tasted like bubble gum,” Ian says and then burbles his tongue. “Yuck.”

“I’m not so certain you know what bubble gum tastes like-.”

Ian tears away from Steve and races ahead of him. “Tastes like medicine.” Of course, with that pronouncement, Ian takes off like a bat out of hell. It means that Steve has to run after him. Through the crowd of mid-day New Yorkers, Steve yells for Ian to stop, to wait up. As they get to the corner, Steve loses him. He books it as fast as he can, the air escaping from his lungs and he rasps in breathes as he turns the corner only to bump right into Sharon Carter, the social worker, who has a death grip on Ian’s hoodie. 

“Sh-Sharo-.” He fights for the words, but he might as well be battling killer robots. His lungs close up, he tries to swallow down the pain but that only exasperates the problem. Digging in his jeans pocket, he pulls out his inhaler. His hands shake and he fumbles with it. Sharon rips it out of his hand, shakes it, and places it in his mouth all the while keeping a hand on Ian. She gives him two puffs and he falls against the brick building as his lungs settle. He closes his eyes and clenches his teeth. This day was going too good to be true. 

She has her hand on his shoulder. “Okay? Steve, are you okay?”

He nods. “So-sorry, I’m okay. I’m fine.” When he looks down at Ian he sees that his son has silent tears staining his face. “It’s okay, Ian. I’m okay.”

“Come on, let’s go back to your apartment,” Sharon says. It takes a few minutes before Steve can gather the strength to start moving. Even then his airways ache and tighten at any little cough. He wheezes but manages not to go into a full-blown attack again. 

Once at the apartment, Steve invites Sharon in and puts Ian’s small book bag in the closet near the door. Bucky isn’t anywhere to be found, which is fine in Steve’s book. He doesn’t need the hassle or the stress right now. Sharon pulls her messenger bag off her shoulder and hangs it on the chair. Without a word she goes to the kitchen, fills the kettle and starts to boil the water for tea. 

As she searches for mugs, Sharon says, “I have some paperwork, Steve.”

“Paperwork?” He guides Ian into the bedroom, flips the light switch, and gets him busy with his latest puzzle. He has a small plastic table with a bright red colored chair to match in his room. Ian loves puzzles and has a knack for them. “Can you work on your puzzle while Daddy talks to Miss Sharon?” Steve wipes away the tears. “I’ll get you a snack, okay?”

Ian agrees though his breath hiccups. 

Steve strokes a hand down his head and then goes to the kitchen, acknowledging Sharon with a quick nod. He pulls out an apple, slices it on a plate, and then gets a glass of milk. He brings the snack to Ian and then kisses the crown of his head again. “I’ll be back in a few.”

Munching on the apple slice, Ian’s content for the moment. Steve sneaks out of the room, closing the door quietly. By the time he joins Sharon in the kitchen she’s steeping the tea. He never knows how to talk to her or most women. He supposes he shouldn’t have ever thought about asking her out. She is his social worker, well, his son’s social worker. And she’s way above his league. He’s not even sure he has a league. Maybe loser. Maybe that’s his league.

“So you see it’s really not paperwork that I came here about,” Sharon is saying and Steve’s weak heart skips a beat.

“What? You’re taking him? But I got a job. In fact, I got two job offers just today,” Steve says and the world transforms to particles around him, pixelated and scrambled. He’s not sure he can remain standing as her words reverberate in his head.

“What?” Sharon says and tilts her head – a lot like a cat. “No, no, Steve calm down, you’ll throw yourself into another asthma attack.” She places her hands over his as they stand next to the kitchen counter. “No, I am not taking him away from you. It’s obvious he’s with the best person for him.”

“Oh, okay,” Steve says and shifts away from her. He needs to sit down. The extremes of the day wear on him. He remembers his manners at the last minute. “Let’s sit.” Picking up his mug of tea, he goes to the table and sits down. She follows but she also digs out a folder from her messenger bag. 

“I have news.” As she sits down, she flips open the folder. “It looks like everything is going well with your adoption. The State is expected to remove all of Mister Zola’s parental rights from both Ian and Jett.”

Jett – he hadn’t considered her. She was older than Ian and ended up at the brunt of Zola’s abuse over the years along with their mother. She ran away when Zola went on his rampage. 

“Well, that’s good, right? I should be able to adopt Ian without any trouble.”

Sharon agrees. “Yes, it looks very good. If you could send me information about the jobs, I can get the process moving more quickly. But I do have something else that’s a little more unsettling.”

Steve furrows his brows. What could she possibly tell him? If the adoption is going through, what could be problematic about it?

“It’s Jett, Steve.”

“Jett?” Steve places a hand on his chest as his bronchi constrict and he forces himself to go through his breathing exercises. If some harm came to her, Ian would never get over it. The little boy adores his older sister. 

“She might be in California. We’ve contacted state officials there. We’re looking for her,” Sharon says. “Since she’s sixteen, it’s a little more difficult to move forward with everything. Do you have any idea why she would go to California or even where she would go?”

Steve raises a shoulder and shakes his head. “Not really. All I know is that she had a friend, a girl a little older. I think she might have been in her early twenties who she looked up to. But I thought Wanda and her brother moved away before the whole incident.” 

Sharon scribbles down their names, asks for their last name and Steve gives it to her. “Any idea if they went to California?”

He lifts a single shoulder as he replies, “I’m not sure. I talked to Jett, knew her to a degree, but I wasn’t close. At all. She’s a teenager. She didn’t want to be hanging out with me.”

Sharon smiles and finishes her tea. “Well, I’ll keep you posted. If Ian gets anything from her will you please update me?”

“Sure, no problem. Also, I will probably be moving to Stark Tower during the summer.” Once he announces that, he spends the next hour explaining his two job offers and what they will both entail. Sharon seems more positive about the Stark job because it doesn’t involve anything that might have to do with security. He assures her that both are safe and that the Shield job he would be riding a desk. 

“Well, things look in good order,” Sharon says as she gathers up all of her notes. “You have my number. Send me your new address and any updated contact information within forty-eight hours of your move. I’d like to come by and check out the premises.”

“Sure, I’ll arrange it with-.” As he starts to stand a knock on the door startles him. He has no idea which of his neighbors is allowing people into the building without being buzzed in. When he opens the door, he welcomes Tony Stark – again. From across the hallway, he sees Groot – Rocket’s tree loving and very reclusive roommate peering through a cracked door. 

Only smiling at the shy roommate, Steve turns his attention to Stark. “Sir, I didn’t expect you?”

Tony walks right into the apartment, showing off a folder. “Got the contract. Oh-.” He stops dead and stares at Sharon. “I’m sorry I didn’t know you had company.” When Steve meets Tony’s gaze he spots something he’s not sure he understands – a kind of jealousy? That’s can’t be right. Possessiveness? That’s not right either. But whatever it is, Tony veils his expression and smiles – a feature that Steve’s seen in the tabloids but even now can tell is fake.

“This is Sharon Carter,” Steve says and Tony only lifts a hand to wave to her, doesn’t offer a hand to shake. The awkwardness might as well take form and appear like a lion in the room, eating away any commonalities and small talk. “She’s Ian’s social worker.” 

That seems to break the spell and Tony smiles – a real one. “Oh, social worker. That’s – is that good or bad?” Tony glances at Steve. 

“All is good, Mister Stark. I’ll be getting my things.” Sharon finishes stuffing her notes and folders back into her bag and then leans over to Steve. She shakes his hand. “If I need anything else, I’ll call you. Make sure I get that information ASAP.”

“Thank you, Sharon,” Steve says and she shows herself out, quietly closing the door behind her. Apparently she didn’t take the awkward lion with her. It yawns out silence between Steve and Tony. But then Tony suddenly remembers the envelope in his hand.

“Ah, I have your contract. Right?” Tony says and places it on the table. “Thought you might like to look at the salary offer. I can bring you over to see the accommodations, if you’d like.” He taps the envelope a few times and then bounces on his toes.

“Hmm,” Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he says, “I don’t have a babysitter right now.” He stares at the envelope, wanting desperately to open it and see the offered salary. He’s tried everything to be an artist. From joining the Army as an antiquities expert, to opening an independent studio, nothing worked – so far. 

“Bring the rugrat around. I really do like kids. I spend time with the orphans at Saint something or other church,” Tony says. “If he’s going to be around, I might as well get used to him.”

Well that didn’t really sound enthusiastic. Steve shouldn’t judge. He knows he shouldn’t; not all people like children. It hurts though, more than it should. “I can just look at the salary and then the contract. Maybe look at the accommodations when I have-.”

Ian comes running out of the bedroom. “Dadda, I finished-.” He stops dead and stares at Tony. “You got a beard.”

Tony touches his face and then looks at Steve. “Is that not allowed? Are you some weird No Beard Cult people?” 

“No, I-.” Steve feels the blush before he can even try and hide it. “I wish I could grow a beard. It might help make me look at little older than thirteen.” 

Tony chuckles at that and says, “Hey, little man, you want to come and see your new place? I got a big Tower with a big swimming pool and a movie theater-.”

Ian leaps in the air, his messed hair flying about him. “Movies? Can we, Dadda, can we?”

Steve scratches at his forehead and replies, “Well it looks like I am outnumbered. So, why don’t you go and get your shoes back on and get your coat in case it’s chilly and Daddy will check things out with Mister Stark.”

“Tony.”

“Mister Tony,” Steve amends. Tony frowns at that and then Ian leaves the room.

“He really follows direction well,” Tony says as Steve picks up the envelope. 

“Sometimes. If he wants something.” Steve opens the envelope and pulls out the papers. 

Tony clears his throat and comments, “I follow directions pretty well too, if I want something.”

Steve eyes him but doesn’t remark. If he didn’t know better he would think that Tony was seriously flirting with him. He concentrates on the contract, sliding into a seat at the kitchen table to read the basics of it. Tony points to the paper.

“The basics are you have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. No talking to the press or anyone else for that matter. I might seem like tabloid fodder but I’m really a private person.” He pushes the first page to the side. “Here’s all the legalese about that and then your basic duties. You’re an art expert and I expect you to weigh in on everything with an honest and fair opinion. I might also ask for some basic help in putting the wing together as well as the private museum I’m creating. Here,” Tony says and tosses the page aside. “Here is the part with the salary and the accommodations. I will also pay for a nanny for your son. The accommodations are free, but I’m not paying for your groceries or toys or your fetish for stuffed animals. I’ll pay for some art supplies because I might ask for some of your work to be displayed as part of the advertisement of the new wing at the Metropolitan and my private museum. How does it look?”

The amount of salary is insane. He can’t speak. He only looks up at Tony. Steve’s sure his mouth must be hanging open and when Tony goes to lift his jaw up to close it, it’s confirmed. Glancing back at the paperwork, Steve tries to formulate words and all he can think of is his mom. “I- Mister Stark – I- I only wanted to tell you that I decided to take the job because of your devotion to your mother. I understand that-I do.”

“So this is acceptable?” 

Steve puts the papers aside and stands up. “I think I sho-.”

Ian comes running out, a glow of happiness on his face. In his tiny hand he clutches a transformer. He offers it to Tony, who blanches a bit but then Steve recalls from his interview that Tony doesn’t like to be handed things. He plays defense for Tony and for his son.

“Why don’t we leave the transformer here,” Steve says and takes the toy away from Ian. Ian looks dismayed and frustrated. 

“For Mister Star.” Ian points to Tony and says again, “For Star.”

“It’s Stark,” Steve says but then Tony interrupts as Steve places the transformer on the table. He scoops up the toy and says, “Let’s bring him along. He can tell us if anything is any good or being invaded by the ugly Skrulls.”

Ian laughs. “No, no, Decepticons.”

Steve rolls his eyes and Tony only laughs. Steve tries to apologize but Tony stops him. “Listen, I have a scholarship program. I work with kids a lot. Not this young, but I have a young protégé, Peter Parker. I get that kids – whatever age – are excited about what they love.” He meets Steve’s eyes. “Aren’t we all?”

Steve doesn’t know where to look. He searches everywhere in the room to settle his gaze but he falls back to Tony, meeting his intense stare and thinking how nice it would be if it meant more. 

“Our chariot awaits,” Tony says after a moment. He points to the paperwork. “Leave it. I’ll send a courier over tomorrow to pick it up.”

On impulse – something Steve would never do at any other time in his life but seems to be making a habit of now – he goes to his drawer of miscellaneous stuff, picks out a pen, and says, “That won’t be necessary.” Is it the money? The allure of Stark – that famous allure.

“You don’t have to sign it now. You should read through it,” Tony cautions.

Steve shakes his head. “If I have one fault, Mist- Tony, is that I put my faith in people. I believe in people, in the individual. It’s something my mother taught me. So, I’m going to sign this now and say I’m ready to come work for you.”

“Because of an old fashion belief in people?” Tony says as Steve finishes initialing and signing the document. 

“Yeah.” Steve dates the paperwork, stuffs it into the envelope, and then folds it under his arm. “If we can get a copy of this while we’re at the Tower, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure,” Tony says and his smile glimmers. “That way you can read the fine print and know that you’re now my sex slave for all eternity.”

Steve colors and Ian looks between them. “What’s a sex slave?”

Tony stutters and looks to Steve for help. He refuses. “Oh, you’re on your own for that one.” He figures that’s retort enough because Tony has to figure out how to explain his vulgar words to a three year old. After he’s gathers up his bag, Steve opens the door and ushers them out. Tony fumbles around for an explanation and Steve snickers. 

Tony mutters, “I should have put an anti-sassy clause in the contract.”

Steve beams. “Too bad you didn’t.” He locks the door and then they all go down the stairs, while Tony diverts to transformers.

“Well,” Ian says. “This transformer dates my Barbie. He loves her.”

“Oh.” Tony seems happy that this is a great topic of conversation but Steve knows he’s doomed. 

“Yeah but Barbie wants to date my Bo Peep from Toy Story. You know her?” Tony only shakes his head. “Do you think that Bo Peep could be their sex slaf?”

Oh lord, Steve should really save his new boss from the terrors of a child’s mind, but it’s too damned funny. He squelches his laughter as much as he can as they exit the building. When he walks out of the building he’s greeted by a crowd from the neighborhood and a stretch limo that looks like it might take up half the block. Tony snickers at him but escorts him to the car. Sam Wilson – one of his oldest and dearest friends – raises a brow at him from across the street and Steve knows he’s going to have to spend time explaining this one to him. Sam along with Bucky happen to be very protective of Steve. Bucky’s devotion was seeded in childhood, while Sam’s stems from their missions together in the Army. Steve might not have physically gone on many missions but the fact remains he helped Sam’s pararescue unit more than once. Steve even managed to save Riley – Sam’s wingman and now husband – from certain death. Not a direct save, but his interpretation of the data counted towards stopping a mission that would have gone south.

As Steve passes Sam, he grips his shoulder and nods. They’ll have some time to talk about it. Steve’s sure so he gets into the limo along with Ian and tries not to hear the whispers. People have their phones raised, taking pictures and video of the whole thing. He’s sure to be in the tabloids – Tony Stark is known worldwide after all. 

Settling into the limo, Tony takes the seat next to Steve as Ian rides facing them. Tony leans forward and says to the driver,

“Partial EMP – make sure the phones go dead and send out the viral program to erase the last five minutes of data.”

“Sure thing, boss,” the man says and Steve looks between them, not sure what to think. As they drive away though, Steve glances out the window to see a number of people cursing at their phones and showing their screens to one another.

Tony loosens his tie and says, “Don’t worry, the pulse and program Happy just sent out will erase everything. Next time, Happy try to be more discreet.”

“I told you to take the Audi,” Happy replies. “You wanted the stretch.”

Tony smirks and eyes Steve. “Well I did want to impress. Did I impress you?”

“For being a sex slave?” Ian asks and Steve finally takes pity on Tony because of his greenish look as they head toward Manhattan. 

“No, Mister Tony was just joking. It’s not nice to say those things. That’s an adult word and we don’t believe in forcing people to do anything they don’t want to do.” Steve peers over his shoulder at Tony. “Mister Tony would never make Daddy do anything he didn’t want to do.”

“But if he wanted,” Tony says and then shuts up because he realizes he’s blowing Steve’s save. He zips his mouth closed and pretends to throw away the key.

“You have to be pretty fast around here to keep up with Ian,” Steve says and finger combs his hair away from his eyes. “Ian’s pretty smart. Almost four, right?”

“Almost.” And he shows Tony his four fingers. 

“Well, seems like a great age to be,” Tony agrees. “You want some apple juice? Can he have apple juice or is he allergic or something. I think we have some snacks. Happy?”

“In the side fridge and cabinet. I put in animal crackers. They were my favor-.”

Tony pushes the button to cut off Happy. Instead, he turns to Ian and asks, “Do you want the juice and animal crackers?”

Ian looks to Steve for permission and Steve nods. He finds the juice boxes and the load of animal crackers in tiny boxes with strings on them to carry. “There’s so many. You must be filthy rich.”

Tony laughs as Steve rolls his eyes. By the time this day ends, Steve might burst an artery from the embarrassment. “Well, you could say that,” Tony sobers as he answers, “My dad made money on war machines. But I turned the company around. We’re into the latest artificial intelligence and smart newsfeeds that clear up fake news from real.”

“Wow, how do you do that?” Steve says. “I mean what kind of – what do you call it?”

“Algorithm. It isn’t easy, but we’re getting there.”

Through the ride, Tony jabbers on about his company, the plans he has, and talks about his protégé as well. He offers a lot of credit to Pepper and then slides into talking about his mother. She meant the world to him and Steve ends up chiming in to tell Tony about his mother. By the time they get to the Tower both of them are speaking lowly and Steve spots the same glint in Tony’s eyes – that telltale sign of unshed tears – that he feels prickling his own eyes. 

Happy parks the limo in the underground garage and to Steve delight they don’t have to go to the lobby and meet Roz2 at all. They go straight to what Tony calls “Steve’s floor.”

“I have a lot of R and D here. I spend most of my time on the East Coast now. My doctors are here. The headquarters for Stark Industries, though, is over in California. I expect you to accompany me there. I want to do some new art at the headquarters too. You’ll bring Ian along -.”

“On an air-o-plane?” Ian says as he hops up and down in the elevator. 

Tony smiles down at the little boy and the look in his eyes isn’t one of exasperation, but purely charm. “On a jet, yes.”

“Jett? Jett doesn’t fly.” He goes quiet as he stands in the corner of the elevator.

Steve explains, “Ian has a big sister. She’s about sixteen now. Her name is Jett.”

“Oh,” Tony says and then frowns. “Sixteen. What, were you precocious as a child?” 

Steve laughs. “No, no. Ian is adopted.” He brings Ian close to his side. “Well, getting adopted, right? I doubt I’ll ever have children of my own. Ian is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Sweet,” Tony says and then the elevator announces the floor. 

“Captain Rogers and Ian Rogers’ floor.”

Ian jumps up and down and howls. “My floor. My name is Ian Rogers. ROGERS!”

Steve can’t help himself. He claps as Ian throws himself out of the elevator as soon as the car’s doors open. Tony shares a smug look with Steve. It’s not malicious but something else, something sweet with a touch of arrogance. It’s not even arrogance, but Steve cannot truly identify it. 

“Welcome to your floor, Captain,” Tony says and ushers him out to the expansive apartment. It’s huge. Larger than anything Steve’s ever lived in his entire life. Tony walks them through the vestibule explaining the lay out. “To the right of the door you’ll find the closet and off to the side a bathroom and a laundry room. Left is just the access to the furnace and air conditioning unit.”

Air conditioning. He’s never been able to afford air conditioning in his life. “Oh.” Managing anything more than a little oh is beyond him at the moment. His son races the full length of the floor and back again. Ian dances around Steve. “There’s a playroom, a real playroom.”

Tony grins. “Well it was a pool room, but I figured you probably needed some place for Ian to play rather than a place to play pool. So I reconfigured it.”

“In a day?”

“Well, I am a man of means,” Tony says and he stuffs his hands in his pockets. He pauses for a moment before he seems to dismiss something and gestures for Steve to follow him. Beyond the vestibule is the main living room with an open concept dining room and a kitchen. The kitchen has a counter with stools notched under it separating the dining room from the kitchen work room. “Over this way you’ll find the playroom. It’s right outside the master, and forgive me for that. Had to rearrange some of the plans so accommodate.” They walk through the playroom, and Steve notes all the latest and greatest toys. His heart beats a little too hard in his chest. 

“Right here is the master.” They enter it and Steve stops dead. The wide room has a king-0sized bed, a large screen television as big as the one in the living room and off to the side is the en suite bathroom. With a tub and a separate walk in shower. The tub has a television over it. It’s a jetted tub. There’s a water closet that houses the private toilet and a walk-in closet for his clothes that’s bigger than Ian’s bedroom back home. 

Steve remains mute; what can he possibly say to all of this? He’s not worth this. He’s just a guy from Brooklyn with nothing in his bank account and a rent bill hanging over his head. He should just walk away and take the Shield job. 

“This way,” Tony says and they’re leaving the master bedroom, through the playroom into the main living room area to finally the rest of the bedrooms. “There are two more bedrooms here. So your roommate will have one, and your son. There are two more bathrooms but not en suite – sorry about that inconvenience.”

“Oh yeah, that’s inconvenient,” Steve mumbles.

“Oh and here.” Tony shows him the last room off the dining room. “Layout’s a little weird, but here’s your studio.” 

Steve stops dead and doesn’t enter it at all. It’s too massive, too beautiful, and decked out with everything he might need. He wasn’t supposed to get all this. He distinctly remembers something about not getting all of this and he shakes his head. “Ian, come on, now.” He spins on his heel and grabs Ian as he whizzes by racing from one end of the flat to the other – it must be over 3000 square feet. “No, I’m sorry Mister Stark, but we can’t accept this. It’s too much.” Way too much. This isn’t what he signed on for, but what the heck did he sign. He isn’t even sure. Christ, he already signed it.

“Well, yes, you did and I have the papers to prove it,” Tony says and doesn’t follow him. He stays at the doorway to the studio. “I know it’s over the top. I have the means so why can’t I go over the top.”

“You don’t even know me. How do you know I won’t scam you?” The rush of everything, the possibilities, the happiness, the surprise, the fears slam into him and his lung threaten to seize up again. Since he’s already dealt with an asthma attack once today it wouldn’t be improbable to have another and it would be worse, much, much worse. It’d land him in the hospital for sure and since he has no health insurance right now. That would just be the icing on the cake. 

“I can’t.” He puts his hand to his forehead and Ian stands there looking up at him, a worried look tarnishing his innocent features. “I can’t accept-.”

Tony takes him by the shoulders and guides him to the couch in the living room. With a slight push he gets him to sit down. “I’ll get water.” He disappears as Ian crawls up on the couch and puts his little arms around Steve’s waist. 

“Here,” Tony says and offers him a glass. He allows Steve to gulp down the water, and then Tony takes the chair across from the couch. He leans forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together in front of him. “I’m going to tell it to you square. If I’m honest and I am – most of the time when I can be, I have been waiting to hire you for nearly ten years.”

“Ten years, I was in high school ten years ago,” Steve says and wants to deny any of this is reality. He was graduating ten years ago.

“Well, you might remember the Maria Stark Foundation scholarship.”

He did. He’d thought about applying but decided against it even though his mentors in high school told him he had a good shot. It entailed going abroad and his mother had been sick then, and he couldn’t leave her – not then. He never looked back on his decision; she died shortly after and he had been grateful for the few extra months with her. “I remember.”

“Well, I knew about your work then. Pepper started to work with me then and it was in the early days of my work on the foundation and changing the company. We started out small, with those scholarships,” Tony says. He stops and reclines back, his arms loose at his sides. “I followed your career because Pepper told me to. I watched you go to the local college. Get your degree and then watched as you went into the Army. I was flummoxed that they took you and a little upset. I’d been waiting to offer you a job.”

“I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean,” Steve responds, but he knows. He knows very well. The Army should have kicked his ass out of the recruiting office. But they didn’t because of the Demonstration Act. They needed antiquities experts and they needed more than that. 

“Well, now,” Tony says with a smile that a snake might use on a mouse. “I think we both know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, I’m small, sickly and don’t fit the profile. I get it,” Steve says and the heat of all those years as a kid in the streets comes back to him. “I also evaded your security crew without a problem.”

Tony smirks. “That you did.” He inhales, holds it, and then releases it. “Listen, I want to do this because I see the potential. My mother invested in artists. She started a lot of their careers. I think I should do the same setting up her Foundation. You, Steve Rogers, you have potential. It’s not with security. You might have a eideticmemory and all. Yes, I know about that. But the truth of the matter is – you’re not going to go much farther than you already have there. Let me be the person who launches your career.”

Steve thumbs over his shoulder at the studio. “I thought you didn’t want to buy my personal stuff. Only some of my art supplies, that’s what you said.”

“Well, I had a change of heart,” Tony says.

“In the time it took us to get here?”

Tony waves him off. “I don’t have a lot of time, Steve. I would like this to work. Do you think it will work out for you?”

Bucky is going to kill him. Nothing Tony said is untrue. In fact the idea of working in security for the rest of his life rankles Steve. He’s not a security guy. Sure he can use his eidetic memory for that arena, but it’s not what he’s made for, not by a long shot. Art has been his passion. Art and its history. He deserves a shot at it. He deserves to get an open door instead of all the slammed locked doors he’s had in his life. He surveys the posh surroundings. It’s a little too hard to believe.

“Okay, I can-.”

Tony whoops and Ian hops around doing what can only be described as strange jumping jacks as he flails his arms around and dances in circles. 

“But-.” Steve yells over the ruckus. “No more buying all of our stuff. And I will pay for a nanny myself. I will pay for Ian’s daycare. Me, no one else.”

Tony deflates but considers Steve with an intuitive eye. “Before this is done, I’m going to pay for it all. I can tell you that right now.”

“And I think you’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“Takes one to know one,” Tony throws back and Steve can only smile at his happy arrogance.

As Steve takes stock of his new life, all he can think is that Bucky is going to kill him. But right now, he doesn’t have to worry about any of that. Right now, he only has to celebrate. Sometimes when life throws a curve ball, it’s not all that bad. He smiles at Tony, really smiles at him, and Tony offers him a genuine smile back – not something for the media but with a sincerity that’s all for Steve. Tony reaches across to Steve and grips his knee.

“It’s gonna be good. You’ll see.”

Steve can’t imagine, hear, or see anything else but that hand touching him. He swallows down the excitement and nods. “I hope so, Miste- I hope so, Tony.”


	2. Chapter 2

PART II

Steve glances at his watch and feels the heat of anxiety curl around his collar, at his temples, and down the small of his back. If Bucky doesn’t get to the Tower in time, Steve is never going to get down to the car in order to go to the airport. Pepper specifically said not to be late, and this is his first overnight trip with Tony – Steve does not want to screw it up. He’s only been working with Tony for a ten days. Over the last week, everything’s settled and Steve’s finally been able to report to work on a regular basis. Pepper’s been very tolerant and patient with him, waiting for him to set up a daycare position – which was near to impossible. So Steve ended up hiring the nanny that Tony already had lined up with the understanding that she would take Ian to his old daycare two days a week. It was a haul but they had Happy as a driver and it worked out for everyone. 

That worked on the weekdays, but not on the weekends. Steve had arranged for Bucky to come by and take care of Ian while Steve left with Tony on a trip to look at some up and coming artists in a community of Greater Exuma, Bahamas. It was going to be a short trip – but it was the first one and it would all go down the tubes if someone didn’t show up to take care of Ian. 

“Come on, Bucky.” Steve mutters and digs out his phone. It’s new because Stark can’t leave well enough alone. Steve had a perfectly good phone but Stark didn’t think it was secure enough, though Steve assured him it was. The next day Tony gave him this at lunch time. He was positively beaming when he slide it across the table. Steve couldn’t say no and then later that evening Bucky saw it and went ballistic.

“What is this dude’s problem?” Bucky had asked. “He’s treating you like some kept woman.”

“He is not. I do work for him. This is a work phone,” Steve said as he placed it gently on the counter. It was expensive, way out of Steve’s budget.

“It’s a thousand dollar phone, Steve,” Bucky said and shook his head. “He’s after something more than just some art advice.”

“So? What if he is?” Steve had blurted out and his cheeks must have reddened so bright his old neighbors in Brooklyn could see him. 

Bucky stood there aghast and then after the silence weighed enough to crush them, only said, “I’m sleeping in Brooklyn tonight. At our flat, the one we could afford.”

He stormed out and left Steve there, staring at his brand new phone. He couldn’t help but feel both elated about all the attention Tony gave him and a little creeped out. Maybe Bucky was right. Maybe Tony was up to something that wasn’t kosher. Regardless, he needs Bucky to show up right now. He’s five minutes late already. He listens to the call go to voice mail, and just as he’s about to text Bucky again, the elevator doors open and Sam walks in.

“Hey,” Sam says and then whistles. “Look at you, Pygmalion.”

Steve frowns. “I am working, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, but, wow, this is beyond belief. Look at the view you have,” Sam says as he crosses to look out at the glittering cityscape of Manhattan. “Now, this, this is the life. I should call Riley and tell him to come over.”

“You need to leave because I have to go,” Steve says and points to his luggage sitting in the corner next to the door. The idea of kicking Sam out goes straight to his gut. Sam and Steve have been buddies since the Army and Steve was even his best man at his wedding. 

“Well, you want me to leave, I will, but then you are going to have to find a better sitter than me.” Sam winks at him. “Hey, listen, Bucky had a gig with Natasha or something. So he asked if I could come by and stay with the munchkin. Riley’s coming over later with our things, if that’s okay.”

“No, no, that’s fantastic! Perfect.” Steve wants to know if Bucky is just giving him the cold shoulder, but he’s more than willing to pretend everything is okay and to take this blessing at face value for now. “Great, I gotta get out of here. Ian!”

Ian appears at the hallway to the playroom. He’s still in his PJs since it is Saturday morning. “Uncle Sam!” He races to Sam and throws himself into Sam’s arms. Sam swings him up and into a bear hug. 

“We gotta get your Dad to bring you around more often,” Sam says and nuzzles him. “I miss seeing you.”

“Miss you too, Uncle Sam.” He clings to Sam and then Steve bows his head. It is times like these that Steve’s doubts grow.

“Don’t do that, you’re doing great,” Sam says and then lets Ian slide down to the floor. “Go and have a good time.”

Steve thanks Sam and then leans down and kisses and hugs his son. “There’s a schedule pinned to the fridge. The nanny comes at eight in the morning on Monday. I should be back on Wednesday night.”

“Bye, Dadda,” Ian says and tugs on Sam’s arm. “Come on Sam, gonna watch some television. I wanna watch Disney channel.” Sam exaggerates his weight and pretends he can barely move. 

“Okay, bye!” Steve says and scoops up his bag. “Thanks, Sam.” Without a look back, Steve gets into the elevator and asks it to bring him to the parking garage where he knows everyone will be there tapping their shoes and waiting for him. As the doors close on the elevator, Steve yells out, “Love you!”

He hears Sam making kissing noises and Ian burbling laughter and then the elevator starts its descent. He spends the short trip going over the agenda and the itinerary. He had been in charge of identifying possible artists to visit. It will be his final say what art gets purchased. So it’s a little daunting but he’s sure he can do it. He ran his own little studio for a year. When the elevator arrives on his intended floor, Steve steps off the lift with his bag slung over his shoulder. Waiting, Pepper greets him with a smile and kindly says nothing of how late he is. 

“Sorry, had to wait for the sitter.”

Pepper eyes him and then says, “No worries. We do have a private jet.” 

“Still I’m sorry to make Tony wait,” Steve says and glances at the Audi SUV they will be taking to the airport. Steve knows little about cars and has no idea if it’s a top of the line vehicle or not. He prefers motorcycles and hopes to own one in the future. Cars and SUVs are mishmash of unknowns to him. He suspects the SUV is tricked out with every luxury, but it’s of no consequence to him at all. Still, he would like to catch a glimpse of his boss. Most of the time he works with Pepper. He’s rarely seen Tony over the past two weeks.

“Tony will meet you at the airport.”

“At the airport? Me?”

Pepper smiles. “You’ll be filling in the role as the art expert and his assistant. Make sure he eats, takes his medication, and don’t let anyone hand him anything.” She shuffles him off to the Audi where a driver (not Happy) waits. He looks bored and slightly angry. Steve stows his bag in the back of the vehicle. He debates if he should just sit up front with the driver, but then Pepper shakes her head.

“Logan doesn’t like it. Sit in the back and keep quiet.”

“Okay,” Steve says, happy for the advice. He climbs in and then Pepper goes to the front. 

“No shortcuts this time, Logan. I want the SUV to come back pristine.” 

Chewing on a cigar, Logan scowls. “Depends on your definition of pristine.”

“I mean it Logan,” Pepper shouts as Logan puts the car into reverse and rams it. Steve barely gets his seatbelt buckled before they are speeding through the garage. He clutches onto the side of the seat, holding on the entire way. He ignores his phone as it chirps in his pocket and hopes it isn’t an emergency with Ian. Driving along the shoulder of the highway seems to be a hobby for Logan. By the time Logan pulls up to the private plane, Steve thinks he might need to puke – repeatedly. 

“That’s record time,” Logan says as he opens the door for Steve.

Steve looks at him bleary eyed. “Yeah, thanks for that.” He wobbles a bit as he finds his feet and Logan tosses his bag. Steve manages to catch it. He holds it to his chest as he makes his way across the tarmac to the jet. Tony’s standing on the stairs waiting for him.

“Oh, I see Pepper did the trial by fire,” Tony says and snickers. “If you survive a ride with Logan and still want to keep the job, you get points in her book.” He slaps Steve on the back. “Good to see you.”

Adjusting the bag on his shoulder, Steve bobs his head. “Good to see you too, sir- I mean Tony.”

“Come on, let’s get boarded. The pilot is Logan’s twin brother.” 

Steve almost stops in his tracks. He feels all of the blood drain from his face and then Tony hoots out a laugh. “No, no, he’s not. I just had to. You look like a scared pigeon getting out of the car. Did he drive on the shoulder of the off ramp?”

“I’m not sure it’s really all that funny,” Steve replies but he finds he can’t hold a grudge. “But at least I survived.” 

“That’s the spirit.” They enter the jet and it’s luxury that Steve’s never experienced. He’s been on a number of planes military and commercial. But this is beautifully designed and comfortable to boot. 

The leather seats are massive, with foot rests and highly polished wooden tables that slide out from the fuselage. The accents are red and gold, but the plush chairs and rugs are in an off white. It’s comfortable and brilliantly decorated at the same time. 

“Let’s get belted in.” 

A flight attendant takes Steve’s bag and he chooses a seat across from Tony. There’s a table between them and they can talk strategy during the flight. Steve has his small portfolio that contains the agenda, some art samples as well as ideas for the Metropolitan wing. He places the portfolio on the table between them as the jet begins to roll down the runway.

“Would you like to go over the agenda and maybe look at some of the artists we’ll interview and review their work?” Steve says.

“No.” Tony doesn’t even look at the table or any of the documents Steve’s spread out. 

“Oh,” Steve says and frowns. “Are you sure? There’s some-.”

“No,” Tony says and then focuses on Steve. “I want to talk about one artist and one artist only.”

“Oh, okay, so you reviewed the materials and picked out what you’d like to-.” Steve starts to search through the information he has, picking through the different biosketches of artists that he brought with him. 

“He’s not in there,” Tony comments and then his eyes – his gaze – laser beams Steve and he stops fiddling with his papers. “I want to talk about you.”

“Tony, I’m not sure.”

“You’re an artist, right?” 

Steve nods, but his stomach flops and he feels like he’s lying when he’s not. He’s an artist – so who cares if the last piece he actually finished happened to be nearly six months ago. Everyone had their off time. Except in the last year he’s finished exactly one painting. And it wasn’t even all that good. “Yes.” He is lying now, really lying.

“So why am I searching around for all of these other artists. Why can’t I have my artist in residence put together a show for me in the wing I’m paying for?” Tony asks. “Would you do that?”

“I don’t think anyone would come to see a show by me,” Steve says. 

“Why do you say that? I saw some of your work before that scholarship.” The plane takes off as Tony leans forward. “It was excellent and that was before I – well before things changed for me. I didn’t care much about anything but myself back then. I had to go through the motions for the scholarship, but your work, your work I remember.”

“That was nearly ten years ago,” Steve says. “I’ve changed as an artist since then. But really, I had a studio. I showed my work, and some others as well. It wasn’t the success I wanted it to be. I ended up going under, and to tell you the truth, I cleaned out my bank account to make the last month’s rent.”

“So you’re not a business man, not everyone is,” Tony says. “Maybe we can change that. Now, tell me which of these artists are worth my time and why they’re better than you.”

It’s an interesting avenue to take as he begins to evaluate the artists he’s lined up for Tony to review their artwork. They spend most of the flight going over the different artists. Even as Steve highlights them, Tony assesses and asks how they are different or better than Steve. It’s not only frustrating but strangely endearing to Steve. By the time they land, Steve has reviewed all of the artists and Tony smiles at him. The whole exercise reminded Steve of a chess game. Steve would move and then Tony would counter play him. He had no idea that Tony knew his works so well. He’d only displayed his work in small shows or in fairs. Not anything to write home about. He even had a small society6 page and facebook page that made little money. How Tony knew so much, Steve couldn’t fathom. 

As a chauffeur drives them to the resort, Steve watches the waves crash against the white sands of the island beaches. The water is the color of emeralds against the glittering white sands. 

Tony leans into Steve and says, “Don’t get to used to it. The next trip is probably Canada. Or over to California.” Tony doesn’t immediately move away. Every senses goes on high alert and Steve quells his reaction. He swallows and shifts a little, but he admits down deep inside, he likes Tony’s weight next to him, pressing against him. Tony faces him and smiles. He’s only centimeters away. Steve can smell his cologne, his personal musk. It allures. “The colors are beautiful.”

“Yes,” Steve manages to breathe out.

“So blue but with a touch of green mixed in, just perfect in my book,” Tony says but he’s not looking at the ocean at all, he’s not even focused on the waves. He gazes into Steve’s eyes.

Every beat of Steve’s heart pounds in his ears and his hands quake in his lap. He wants to smile, to encourage, but Steve’s never been good with people he’s attracted to. Plus maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t get romantically involved with the boss. He recalls Bucky’s disgust about the whole endeavor. Steve coughs and that’s enough to push Tony away – who only grimaces at Steve and then glances out his own window. 

“We’ll be there in a bit. Tonight you have off. Tomorrow we have our meetings with the first artists, right?”

Disappointment over milk that was never there and never spilt is a ridiculous emotion, his mother would assuredly say to him. So he covers it, digs a hole deep in his chest and buries it. “Yes, sir. I’m excited about our first candidate.”

“Like you said on the flight over,” Tony says but Steve can tell he’s lost interest. To top it off he brings his phone out and starts playing on it. Steve really screwed up. 

Or did he? He shouldn’t encourage Tony. Not only would it make the working situation difficult but it would probably end up badly. When they pull up to the resort, Steve’s gone over all of the scenarios in his head and several of them have ended with a hurricane and Steve dead under a pile of rubble. To assuage his anxiety as they unload the car and the valet gets their luggage, Steve pulls out his own phone and texts Sam.

_We made it. I screwed up._

In only a few seconds he gets a reply. _How’d you screw up?_

_Just being me._

_Don’t be Eeyore, dude._

Steve smiles. Anytime he gets morose, Sam always brings out the big guns and tells him not to be Eeyore from Winnie-the-Pooh. Even as they walk to the front desk to check in, another text comes in with a picture of Tigger jumping up and down on his screen. Either that’s a subliminal message or Sam let Ian used the phone. It lifts his mood. Once he’s checked in and Tony waves to him, saying he’ll catch up tomorrow, Steve goes to his room and straight to the balcony.

The expanse of the ocean beyond the palm and coconut trees and beyond the white sands mesmerizes him. He only traveled in the military, and most of that was for missions. He barely got out of the analyst room most of the time. He sat in dark rooms, going over the data and comparing it to his memories of fly overs. The vast majority of it of his travels with the military were short stops in Europe and longer deployments in the Middle East. Nothing like this – where the calming waves of the ocean even from a distance of a hundred yards wash over him in some kind of primal baptism. The breezes, the fresh scents on the air of flowers in bloom all settle his nerves. He really shouldn’t read too much into Tony. Tony’s a flirt, and everyone knows it. It was a natural thing for him to get into Steve’s personal space, to say things about his eyes, nice things. 

Steve sinks down on the bed as he listens to the ocean outside the open balcony doors. He declared himself to be bisexual at an early age. His mother took it well; she only wished for him to be happy. Only problem happened to be that no one really seemed all that interested in a guy that a stiff wind could blow over. He shouldn’t dwell, he only ends up morose for his troubles. As he lies there on the bed, the weariness of travel overtakes him and he’s lulled into a peaceful slumber. By the time he’s woken by his phone chirping it’s dusk outside and the ocean darkens into deeper blues and purples.

He finds his phone where he threw it when he first entered his room. It’s a spacious room with a bar he’ll never touch, a king sized bed, and a large bath. He grabs the phone and answers it before realizing that the caller id said _Tony Stark_.

“Hello?”

“I’m sorry. I made you uncomfortable in the limo. I do that. A lot to a lot of people. But you know, I don’t want to.”

“Mister Stark?” Steve says and cringes. He has to stop calling him Mister Stark all the time.

“See, you don’t even feel comfortable with calling me Tony,” he says and there’s a long exhale of air. “I’m not trying to be creepy. Do you think I’m creepy? Pepper says I can be creepy when I set my mind to something.”

“I don’t think you’re creepy,” Steve replies but it comes out more like _I don’t think you’re creepy?_ Plus what has he set his mind to?

“Don’t you?” Tony says and lapses into silence. Steve doesn’t know if he should fill it, if Tony is considering hanging up, or if he needs help. He kind of sounds like he might need a little help. 

“Miste-, Tony, are you okay?” Steve crosses to the balcony doors, listens to the lapping waves, feels the heat and humidity envelop him. 

“Yeah, don’t, don’t mind me. Once in a while I get a little morose.”

Steve chuckles. “I was just thinking that about myself. It’s easy to do.”

“It is. It is.” He pauses. “Listen I don’t want to bother you. Good nig-.”

“You didn’t make me feel uncomfortable, Tony,” Steve blurts out and wonders what the hell he’s playing at – he does not know how to flirt. He should just zip it closed. 

“No?” 

Steve swears Tony sounds hopeful. “Just a little confused?” It’s probably the wrong tactic to use, to wheedle his way to an explanation, but he’s not a pro at this type of conversation and it’s the best shot he has.

“Don’t be.”

Well, that was supremely unhelpful. Serves him right. Steve half-smiles to himself. He’s not sure what a reply should be to that, so he just says, “Good night, Tony.”

“Good night, Steve.”

After he disconnects, Steve wonders if he’s lost a chance, or if there was a chance at all. Does he even want a chance? He tries not to let it bother him when he goes to get something to eat, and then again when he gets ready to take a shower, or even when he gets into bed. Before he goes to sleep, he checks in with Sam. Ian had a great day. His social worker, Sharon, wants to check out the apartment in the Tower, and Bucky finally showed up. Shield called. They agreed to postpone Steve’s start date until late September. Even thinking about that sends a chill through him. He’s only been working with Tony for less than two weeks and already he dreads the idea of it ending. Would it end if he didn’t want to leave? He really hadn’t thought about it or clarified it with Ms. Potts. Getting off the phone with Sam, Steve decides it’s just best to go to sleep and try not to get ahead of himself.

The next days are busy with visits with the local artists and viewings of their works. Tony keeps fairly separate, aloof almost and when he is friendly it’s with a fair amount of snark. Pepper advised him that Tony could be moody and that he should just roll with it. The afternoon before they are to depart, Steve finds himself with some free time. Tony excuses himself, saying he had teleconferences to attend. Steve watches him leave, disappearing into the hotel. 

Steve wanders down to the beach, his shoes hanging from his fingers as he walks along the beach. The warm day with its humidity should force him inside, since the heavy air is no friend to his asthma. But he’s relaxed and teetering on feeling melancholy. 

“I did the right thing,” Steve says. “Why would he want me?” He’s living a fantasy. Yet, throughout the last days Steve had the privilege to watch Tony interact and enthuse about the local artists. Steve observed the infectious excitement Tony possessed about this project to sanctify his mother’s legacy through art. While some of the artists might not have lived up to expectations, Tony never squashed their hopes or dreams. 

When Steve pointed it out after one meeting, Tony shrugged with hands in pockets. “I learned my lesson early in life. People have dreams. Live life like it’s the last days you have and don’t take away other’s dreams. It doesn’t help anyone to point out damaged goods.”

He understood that, not only from being in the military but also as a young man with a righteous attitude and too many bullies in the neighborhood. “How is not letting them down about the quality of their art work really protecting them?” 

Tony smiled, but it was soft and tender. “Dreams are to be protected at all costs. Take it from me. The future is never to be taken for granted. But, dreams, well, I have a soft spot for them.”

Listening to Tony, watching that forlorn look come over his face, changed things for Steve. He learned a lot about Tony over the past few days, even though Tony tried to stay separate with his detached attitude. Some of it still remained puzzling, like why Tony pursued Steve for the job and why Tony looked like a lost little boy sometimes even though he was a good dozen years older than Steve. Tony put up this façade for the rest of the world, a man of iron, strong and flamboyant, but in actuality he seemed vulnerable. The thought of all of those tabloid articles that Steve had read over the years sickened him.

“Isn’t right,” Steve murmurs as he feels the grit of the sand between his toes. 

“Thinking about going in?” 

Steve startles, but turns to find Tony standing behind him. He has on a swim shirt and trunks on. “Thought I’d go swimming. Wanna come?” 

Stuttering, Steve searches for a reply and manages just a quick n-nno. Tony cracks a crooked smile. He tosses his shoes on the warm sand and winks at Steve. “That’s too bad.” Racing to the edge of the water he stops once and asks, “Are you sure?”

Steve only stares. There’s nothing he can say as his lower lip falls open at the sight of such a masterpiece. Tony is all lean muscles and sinew. He’s graceful and lithe and strong all at the same time. Steve folds his arms around his thin chest and shakes his head. “I have to call my son.” He escapes. He doesn’t leave his room for the rest of the night. When he does take a shower, he avoids the mirrors at the double vanity. 

He showers without looking at his chest, with the sternum prominent, the ribs. He doesn’t pay attention to his twig-like arms or his knobby knees. He washes efficiently and then gets out, drying and dressing without much fanfare. He curls up in bed with his phone waiting to call Ian and desperately lonely for home.

When they fly home, Steve keeps himself busy. They selected one out of the six artists they reviewed to display at the Maria Stark Wing of the Metropolitan. Most of the time art museum wings dedicated to beneficiaries showed works that the dignitary had acquired. The Maria Stark Wing would be different. Tony had specifically requested that a section of the wing be for up and coming artists in the spirit of discovery. It had been his mother’s greatest joy to find and bring to light those artists who were little known. Tony wants to keep that tradition alive. 

Through the flight home, Steve goes over the different paintings that they had acquired – he had them categorized on a tablet and he put together a spreadsheet to account for everything. He also wants to create bibliographies of each artist as well. He’s never been a writer. He’d taken notes while they interviewed the artists and now he needs to put those words together. 

Tony tries to start a conversation but Steve keeps his head down. At one point, Tony says something about the old adage about a dull boy and Steve only grunts at him. Finally Tony leaves him alone. It feels colder and more distant, but Steve doesn’t want to get his hopes up and this is the only way to do it. Steve’s read the tabloids, he knows Tony’s type, and Steve is definitely not it. That prince from Norway – Thor – lord, he looked like a god that was for sure. Steve’s thankful that by the time they land, Tony’s gotten the message and hurries off of the plane to meet with Pepper. 

Steve takes a taxi home, not looking for his ride with Happy or Logan. When he gets to the Tower and walks into his apartment, he nearly wants to pack everything up and just leave but then Ian runs out of the playroom with a smile on his face and his little feet in footed pajamas. To Steve he’s cuter than all the puppies in the world.

Following him out of the playroom, Bucky stands and leans against the doorframe. “What? No tan?”

“I’m Irish. If I sat out in the sun I would broil and then explode,” Steve says and he zerberts his son’s neck. Ian giggles in his arms. 

Bucky considers him and then says, “Time for bed, Ian. Dadda’s tired and has been flying all day long.”

“Yeah, my arms are so tired from all of that flapping.” Steve stows his luggage in the laundry room. He’ll deal with it tomorrow. 

Ian snorts. “You didn’t fly. Air-o-plane.”

“How do you know if I didn’t fly?” Steve mocks. “I am very graceful in the air.” He stretches out his arms and then bends down so his son can climb on his back. Bucky makes a noise as if he’s about to reprimand Steve for giving Ian a piggyback ride. Ian’s getting big – but Steve will be damned if he doesn’t do it just a few more times until he literally can’t anymore. He’s so grateful to be home and with his family again. He cuddles with Ian after the bed routine of brushing his teeth, going potty, and reading Green Eggs and Ham again. 

Ian hangs onto Steve and whispers, “Missed you, Dadda.”

“I missed you, too.” More than he realized he would. He kisses the crown of Ian’s head and then quietly and soberly sings the song his mother always sang him before going to sleep. 

Dún do shúil, a rún mo chroí  
A chuid den tsaol, 's a ghrá liom  
Dún do shúil, a rún mo chroí  
Agus gheobhair feirín amárach

Tá do dheaid ag teacht gan mhoill ón chnoc  
Agus cearca fraoich ar láimh leis  
Agus codlaidh go ciúin 'do luí sa choid  
Agus gheobhair feirín amárach

Dún do shúil, a rún mo chroí  
A chuid den tsaol, 's a ghrá liom  
Dún do shúil, a rún mo chroí  
Agus gheobhair feirín amárach

Tá an samhradh ag teacht le grian is le teas  
Agus duilliúr ghlas ar phrátaí  
Tá an ghaoth ag teacht go fial aneas  
Agus gheobhaimid iasc amárach

Dún do shúil, a rún mo chroí  
A chuid den tsaol, 's a ghrá liom  
Dún do shúil, a rún mo chroí  
Agus gheobhair feirín amárach

As Steve finishes the last verse of Dún do Shúil, he slips out of the bed and covers up Ian with his favorite fleece blanket. With all of the riches around them, Ian still loves the fleece blanket Steve bought him when he first came to live with Steve. He watches Ian for a long moment, before closing the door but leaving it open a crack so he can hear his son in the night. When he returns to the main living room, Bucky studies him and then shakes his head.

“That bad, huh?”

Steve ignores his friend and goes to the sink. Filling the kettle he puts it on the stove and turns on the burner. “Sam have to leave?”

“Riley had a gig out of town,” Bucky says. “So, do tell. You only break out your Ma’s lullaby when you’re feeling depressed and lonely.”

“No, I don’t,” Steve says and gets his old mug, the one with the chip in it – the one his mother gave him on his birthday. It has a little American flag in the shape of a circle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, you do,” Bucky says and walks over to Steve, grabbing the mug from the counter. “Your old mug, the song. I’m surprised you haven’t dug out your old Pooh bear.” 

“Stop it,” Steve says and breathes out of his nostrils, trying but failing to quiet the ache in his chest. “Just stop.” It doesn’t sound as vehement as he feels. 

“Did he hurt you?”

“God, Buck, I’m not a wilting violet, you know,” Steve says and moves around Bucky to get out of the kitchen and out from under his scrutinizing gaze. 

“Hey, listen. I just wanted to know you were okay. I know you, Steve, and I’m reading all the signs right. There’s something wrong.” Bucky says but stays put in the kitchen. 

Steve collapses onto his couch – Tony’s couch. None of this stuff is actually his own. He lays his head back and closes his eyes. “Nothing. He didn’t do anything. But I -.” He stops. What can he say? I kind of have a crush on my boss but I know he’ll look right through me? “He’s a lot more amazing than the tabloids say.”

Bucky twists up his mouth at that, but waits for Steve to explain.

“We spent some time together. Talking to artists. Talking about his vision for this private museum for his mother.” Steve glances at Bucky, but all he sees is consternation. “You didn’t see him. You don’t know.”

“He make moves on you?”

“No,” Steve says and can’t hide the disappointment in his voice. “No, yes, no, not really. I read something into stuff. It wasn’t there. He’s a good man. Everyone talks about his life as a playboy – I didn’t see him go after anyone on the beaches or the bars. Nothing. He was more of-.” Steve stops and thinks about it. They only shared a few meals without artists. Most of the time, they did their work and then went their separate ways. “He’s a loner.”

“Tony Stark is not a loner.”

“He seems sad when I look at him,” Steve says. “Like when no one else is looking, that smile pasted on his face fades and there’s this solitary almost lonesome look on his face.”

“He is not a lost puppy or a baby bird. You do not need to rescue him,” Bucky says. “Besides, he has the great Pepper Potts for that.” 

“Bucky, don’t do that. Don’t make a conclusion based on false evidence.” The tea starts to whistle and Steve goes to get up but Bucky waves him to sit. 

“You’re starting to sound like him, you know,” Bucky says. “We’ve only been here about three weeks.”

“Yeah, and I need to get to bed. Don’t make the tea,” Steve says even as Bucky’s pouring the hot water over the bag. “I have to get up early tomorrow. We have meetings with some people at the Metropolitan.” Steve yawns and stands. 

“Well, you’ll be happy to know I’m going to see that Shield place tomorrow,” Bucky says and that perks up Steve. 

“Really?”

Bucky holds up his hand. “Don’t get all excited. It’s probably nothing. Sam and Nat been riding my ass about it, so I decided to just go to quiet them down.”

“But that’s good. That’s really good,” Steve says. At least something is going right. 

“And-.” Bucky can’t suppress the smile. “Sam finally got through the red tape. I’m going for my measurements for my prosthetic on Friday.”

“Buck, that’s great news. Finally!” With that he’s in the kitchen, hugging Bucky. Good news, really good news. Steve has learn how to accept the good with the bad. Plus he has to stop thinking that anything in his life is bad right now. Because it really isn’t. It’s just his mood and his feelings about himself. He’s setting himself up for a fall. No one else is. “I’m glad.” He pats Bucky and then breaks the hug. “I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks. It’ll be good,” Buck says and then shrugs. “I think?”

Steve only chuckles and then bats Bucky on the arm. “Good night.” After his uneven trip with Tony, it is good to finally hear some honestly good news. The fact that Nat got Bucky to go to Shield in the first place is monumental. When he enters his room, he digs out his phone and sends Natasha a quick thank you. She’s good for Bucky even though she has a tendency to be like a drill sergeant at times. Right now, maybe that’s what Bucky needs, stability and direction from someone with a strong head on her shoulders. Lord knows that isn’t Steve.

He lies down on the bed with his arms folded under his head, staring at the ceiling. What would his life be like if some magical serum fixed everything wrong with him? He used to ask his mother and she would only smile and tell him that was nothing wrong with him. Oh, how he used to think about how wrong she was. Tiny, frail, and collecting different ailments as a hobby. He really needed to change things. He couldn’t even think about joining Tony in the ocean for fear of him seeing Steve in his swim trunks – his boney body. 

It dawns on him hard enough that it smacks him like an anvil landed on his head. He could always work out, strengthen his muscles, or try and build muscle. It might not give him a body like a magical serum, but it might build some mass. It could work. But he’d have to work up to it, maybe swim a little to try and strengthen his lungs and shoulders first. Resolved, the night doesn’t feel as bad as it did.

When he arrives at work the next morning (only a few floors down from the apartment), Steve walks into the suite of offices to find that Pepper is there but Tony is nowhere to be found. She announces that Tony has been called away to California and won’t be back for some time. He should continue his search for promising young artists and they would tour the space Tony was considering converting into a private museum honoring his mother. 

While Steve is disappointed, he focuses on the job at hand. His duties have expanded beyond curator for the Maria Stark Foundation. Pepper assigns him all of the activities and management of Tony’s art. He needs to catalogue it and get it in proper storage or properly displayed. That becomes his primary focus as he’s waiting for different artists around the world to respond to him. Pepper doesn’t spend a lot of time in the suite of offices that Steve’s assigned to anymore. She lets him fly fairly free. He sets his own hours and finds that working in blocks helps because he can break up the day and visit in his son or go swimming.

At first, swimming is a chore. The Tower pool is gorgeous and a little too populated during the lunch break and right after work for Steve’s tastes. So he usually goes mid-morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays when Ian is off at his daycare. He takes a 30 minute break. He doesn’t worry about it since many times after he puts Ian to bed, he wanders down to the office and works for another few hours when Bucky is home. It all balances out. Mid-morning no one is at the Olympic sized pool with its lanes marked out and a panoramic view of the city. He brings his gym bag (a grocery tote since Steve’s never had gym bag outside of the Army). Changing in the small locker rooms, Steve dons his swim trunks and throws his towel over his shoulders that’s thick and warm. 

The first time he swam the length of the pool, it nearly did him in. His asthma kicked in and he flailed around, but managed to get out of the pool and lay on the red and gold mosaic tile. So now, before he gets into the pool he pulls out his inhaler, takes a few puffs and then stuffs it back into his bag. He can do a few laps now – three to be exact before he has to stop. Then he rests and does another two. For a beginner he thinks he’s doing well. He’s also kept his little crusade to beef up a secret. He does not need that look from Bucky or Sam that just reeks of pity. 

He’s peeling off his watch as he walks out of the locker room and out onto the deck of the pool. He stops dead. There’s someone in the pool doing laps. He looks at his watch. It’s 10:03. No one ever comes to the pool at this hour. No one. They are usually all in meetings or something. He considers leaving but then freezes when the person stops at the side of the pool closest to Steve, and hangs there, wiping at his face. 

It’s Tony. Of course, it’s Tony. 

Steve turns on his heel, but doesn’t make it far enough away when Tony calls out to him, “Steve?”

Steve stays facing the locker room. “I thought you were still in California.” It had been weeks now. He hadn’t heard or spoken directly to Tony since the Bahamas trip. 

“Just got in a few hours ago. I should never have the pilot fly the red eye route. Can never sleep and now I’m hyper. Thought a swim would help me out.” 

Steve nods but doesn’t turn around. He remains stock still. 

“Are you swimming?” Tony asks.

All of Steve’s hopes sink. He just wants Tony to leave or he wants to escape – one or the other. Placing a hand on his towel and clutching it close to his chest, he says, “I was, but I forgot I have a teleconference.”

“Skip it,” Tony says. “I won’t tell the boss.” 

Steve closes his eyes. This is not happening. He’s not going to take his towel off and show Tony what he looks like. He’s not an Adonis. He doesn’t have broad shoulders, a chiseled chest, a narrow waist and muscular legs. None of that. He’s not a dream at all. 

“Come on,” Tony prods. “The water’s fine.”

Steve quells his urge to run and, taking a breath, turns around and goes to the water’s edge. “Thanks for the invite, but I really do think-.”

Tony stops him. “Steve, come on. Nothing is going to happen if you don’t take a phone call.” Tony pushes off from the wall and lays on his back. He’s wearing a swimming shirt and trunks. Steve really needs to get a damned shirt to swim in. 

“I don’t.” He grips the towel around his shoulders. “I don’t know.” Glancing over his shoulder, he wishes that a big alien beast would come through the doors and maybe just eat him. Before he knows what’s happening, he hears the distinct sound of Tony climbing out of the pool, the water running down his sleek and muscular body. Facing Tony, Steve only smiles. “I think I should-.”

Tony puts an index finger to his own lips. “Let me help you.” He grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head. Standing in front of Steve, Tony puts his hands out as if to present himself. “See.” Scars riddle Tony’s chest. “Not a lot of people know about it. I could say that it was because of some terrorist attack and abduction and that I was a great hero because I had to escape with this horrible wound in the middle of my chest. But it’s nothing as exciting as all that.”

Steve tears his eyes away from the large scars. “I’m sorry.” He shouldn’t stare.

“What for? You didn’t do this to me.” Tony runs his hands down the rough surface of his chest. “This is a little token of my life as a drunk. I’m damaged goods. I didn’t learn my lesson when my alcoholic father drove my mother on Christmas Eve from a party at a friend’s house. He was drunk, she didn’t want to drive, and he drove anyhow. He ended up wrapping the car around the tree. They both died instantly.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve says and knows it is ineffectual. Christmas Eve!

“I was seventeen and learned nothing,” Tony says. “I wrapped my Maserati around a tree ten years later. Nearly died. Had a come to Jesus moment. Changed everything in the company, and took on a new mission.”

“And you’re fine now?” Steve asks because something tells him that Tony’s only confessing half the story. 

Tony lifts a shoulder. “Did you know that in most car accidents people die from chest injuries? The compression of their chest crushes the lungs and heart.” 

Steve relaxes his grip on the towel. “No.”

“Yeah, it’s true. I survived, but my lungs and heart will never be the same. Too much scar tissue.” All the while he’s talking, Tony gazes out to the city beyond through the ceiling to floor windows. His eyes glitter and dance as the light reflected off the water shines. All of what Steve’s seen with Tony is that he puts on an act. He’s a showman, but he keeps himself – his real self – hidden. This is a rare moment. 

“But you’ll be okay?” Steve asks and he wants it to be true but he knows the answer.

Tony only faces him with a smile on his lips. “What say we swim a little? I didn’t think you swam. You never swam in the Bahamas.”

Steve colors and he says, “I wanted to, but.” God, here Tony was standing in front of him with this massive scar on his chest and Steve couldn’t even -. He tugs off the towel like a conquistador ready to fight his way to safety. He hates it for a moment, being so exposed. His boney, thin rail chest. How he wishes there had been some doctor, some special rays that could have fixed him. 

“But?” Tony asks and Steve didn’t remember him standing so close. 

Steve resists the need to wrap his arms around his hollow chest. “Well, guys like me don’t have much to show off on a beach.” Personal space breach screams in Steve’s head, but he doesn’t back away. He stays firmly in place. Tony’s only a few inches taller than him, but his shadow covers Steve. 

“What do you mean, guys like you?” Tony says. “Guys with eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea? Or lashes that touch your cheeks, or lips that should be illegal?” Softly, tenderly he raises his hand and touches Steve’s lower lip. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t, but the fact remains: I might just have a crush on you, Steve Rogers.”

He can’t help it. He blurts out, “Why?”

Tony laughs and his eyes crinkle. “You talk back to me, you watch out for me, you love art. You care about things. You are desperately, insanely beautiful in a kind of classical way that you only see in Maxfield Parish paintings.” 

“I’m-I’m not.” Steve breathes out the words because Tony leans in. His face only inches away from him.

“I did this all wrong in the Bahamas. I played hard to get, but now I know that isn’t the way to go. I’m laying it all on the line here,” Tony whispers. “Can I kiss you, Steve Rogers?”

“I thi-.”

“Tony?” A voice interrupts them and Steve jumps away. “I thought we were getting a late breakfast today.”

Tony practically growls, but smiles at the man. “Steve, this is my friend Colonel – retired from the Air Force – James Rhodes. He’s currently in charge of cockblocking me.”

“Tony, that’s not nice.” Rhodes says. 

“Tell Steve it’s true,” Tony says and licks his lips as he saunters over to the very well built, very handsome former Air Force Colonel. “Sweetcakes.”

Steve cringed at the name. Surely this must be one of Tony’s suitors. Or at the very least Tony’s interested in the guy. Tall, dark, handsome. Everything that Steve is not. For a minute there, Steve actually thought he had a chance. Obviously, Tony knew that this Rhodes guy would show up and it was all about the scene. 

“Excuse me, I have a teleconference to get to,” Steve mutters and manages to escape without a muffled plea from Tony for him to come back. Unfortunately, Steve has to sit in the locker room for a good ten minutes before Tony and Rhodes leave. Once they do, Steve deflates and sinks onto the bench by his locker. It was just a scene to make Tony’s true target jealous.

Only. Only. “It didn’t feel like that at all.” It felt sincere. Struggling with his emotions will get him nowhere so Steve changes and goes back to work. He resolves that he’ll talk to Tony about it the next time he sees him.

The next day is not on the menu as far as proceeding with his desires. Bucky stops him as he’s getting Ian ready for the nanny to take him across the city to Darcy’s daycare. Steve notices that Bucky’s dressed in a light blue button down and navy blue slacks. He rarely wears shirts that aren’t easy to tie off, and he almost always wears jeans. 

“Do you think you could come with me to the VA hospital?”

Ian’s brushing his teeth as Steve supervises. “Get the back now.” He looks up at Bucky again and says, “The VA?”

Bucky scratches at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I have an appointment for a fitting. Plus they’re going to assign me a therapist. Occupational or Physical, I don’t know. I just thought, you know, but – you know what forget it.”

“What?” Steve catches Bucky before he can leave the master suite bathroom. “No, Bucky, sure I can go. I’ll call in. No problem.”

“It’s just that Nat’s going out of town for something with her Assassin Red Room Group,” Bucky says. “And she’d have to cancel. She hasn’t seen her college friends in over a year.”

“Yeah that group scares me.” Steve wipes Ian’s face and then tells him to go and grab his backpack. “Seriously it’s not a problem.”

“You’re sure?” 

“Yeah, perfectly sure.”

He calls in and gets his assistant, a young college student. She has the largest glasses Steve has ever seen and the wildest hair that reminds him of a giraffe’s pattern. Her name is Friday and she happens to be a whiz on the computer. He tells her that he needs to take the day off and to please inform Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark. After getting off the phone and saying goodbye to Ian, Steve’s ready to go to the VA with Bucky. It’s not a terrible journey over to 23rd street. They take the subway and arrive at the VA by 10 am. Bucky’s appointment is at 10:30 am.

“I’ll buy you a coffee,” Steve says when he notices that Bucky’s sit in the waiting room with his legs bouncing. “We have some time and there’s a little café on the second floor.”

Bucky runs his hand through his hair and follows Steve. Once at the café, Steve orders two coffees and two muffins. He places the coffees on one of the small tables near the side of the café bar and gives Bucky one of the muffins. “Eat.” Knowing Bucky he probably didn’t eat at all. “I’ll get some napkins.”

His phone beeps as he grabs the paper napkins. Steve checks it and it’s Tony – a frowny face with a question mark. He types out.

_Told Friday I had to take the day off_. He hopes that Friday told Tony. He doesn’t want to get into trouble for going AWOL on his boss. 

The phone chirps back at him. _You okay? Sick?_

_No, friend in need._ Steve brings the napkins over and sets his phone on the table. Bucky hasn’t touched his muffin or coffee. Steve raps a knuckle on the table. “Eat.”

Grumbling, Bucky picks up the muffin and bites it like he has a grudge against it. He glares at Steve. 

_Everything ok_? Tony asks. 

_At the VA with Bucky._ Bucky and Tony really haven’t spent more than three seconds in each other’s company. And in that time Tony managed to piss off Bucky. 

_Maybe after you could come up to the penthouse. Have some things to talk about._

“Crap,” Steve says and only writes a quick ok. 

“What?”

“Tony wants to see him after I get back,” Steve says and pushes his untouched muffin away. 

“You think he’s mad because you took the day off?” Bucky says and there’s a feral look to his eyes. 

“No,” Steve says. “No.” The tall, dark, and handsome Rhodes comes to mind. “Probably just wants to clear up some misunderstanding.”

“This again?”

“What again?” Steve snaps back. He stops himself, closes his eyes, clears his mind, and then focuses on Bucky. “I’m sorry. But there is no again.”

“He hurt you during that trip.” Bucky takes a drink of his coffee, grimaces, and puts it to the side. 

“No, he didn’t do anything on the trip,” Steve says. Even though they’d kept their distance and it felt awkward, Steve often got the strange sensation that Tony tiptoed around wanting more. What? Steve never found out. “It was just awkward, that’s all. And half of that was because I was reading something into it that wasn’t there.” Obviously, Mister Tall-Dark-Handsome was waiting in the wings for Tony. “Let’s go.”

They clean up their barely touched snack and then head back to the office. A nurse calls them about 20 minutes late for the appointment, and they head back to the examinination room. Bucky’s already been measured for the prosthetic arm, but Steve can see just by how he hangs that one arm over his chest that he’s nervous as he sits on the exam table. 

The nurse smiles and tells them that the Orthopedist will be with them in a moment. It takes another 20 minutes and the doctor comes in followed by a guy in a purple t-shirt and jeans. The guy has a case and he puts it on the counter behind the gurney as Doctor Richards examines Bucky. Steve’s not a big fan of Richards; he seems to be a know it all. 

After Richards finishes, he introduces the guy with the purple t-shirt. “This is Clint Barton. He’ll be fitting you with the prosthetic arm. He’s a Prosthesis Specialist and a Physical Therapist. He’ll be working with you on your rehabilitation.”

“Thanks, Doctor,” Bucky says. Luckily the doctor is called away by a nurse and Clint steps in.

“If you’re comfortable with it, could you take off your shirt?” Clint asks. 

Bucky handles unbuttoning his shirt like a pro and then pulls off the sock on the end of his arm. His stump is in much better condition than it was only a few weeks ago. Steve stands to the side as Clint speaks lowly, asking Bucky about the arm, how it feels, tightness, restrictions. He spends time having Bucky move the arm as Clint feels the muscles in his back and chest. 

“There will be different types of prosthetic arms that you’ll use. First, I like to call this one the starter car. It’s not the best model, but it will train your muscles to learn how to work the mechanics of the arm. This is basic prosthetics. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s not like you’re getting a metallic robotic arm or anything like that.”

“It’s a hook, isn’t it?” Bucky pales.

“For now, yes. You have to learn the simple techniques of how to use your back muscles and chest muscles to drive the arm and the gross motor skills. Then once you get those under your control, we’ll move onto other models,” Clint says. He taps on his ears. “I’m deaf and my cochlear implants are the best out there. Did I start with them? No, I started with good old hearing aids. Let’s take it in baby steps, okay?”

Bucky nods and relaxes as Clint begins to go over the basics of the prosthetic arm. Steve’s phone chirps again and Clint frowns at him. Excusing himself, Steve leaves the room and goes to the hallway outside the doctor’s office.

_Do you think you could make it by 3?_ It’s Tony again. 

“What the rush?” Steve says but types. _It might take a while here. I’m not sure._ He hopes this isn’t about work, but then again if it’s not about work it’s about something more personal and Steve has never been good at figuring out attraction. 

_Ok. How about 7? I’ll get dinner_

Steve stares at the message. Is this a date? And then Mister Tall Dark Handsome comes to mind (AGAIN) and Steve scowls at himself. People who own companies and jet set about the world don’t keep regular hours – just look at how Tony showed up at his apartment in the middle of the night. Definitely working dinner. _Let me check about babysitter_

_Already set up_

Steve furrows his brows at the message. “That’s weird.” He asks who and Tony comes back with his butler, Jarvis. _Your butler????_.

_Loves kids. Ana can’t have kids._

Ana? “His wife,” Steve reminds himself. “Okay.” He affirms that he will be there, turns the sound off on the phone, and returns to the room. Clint and Bucky are chatting as Bucky tests out the arm. “How’s it going?” Steve asks.

“Good,” Bucky says and clips at Steve with the claw of the arm. “Argh, feel like a pirate.”

Clint chuckles. “Everyone does that with the test arm. Everyone.” 

Bucky swings the arm around but hits Clint in the face for his efforts. “Oh god, I’m sorry.” 

Clint rubs at his nose and cringes. “Well, that’s not the first time I’ve been hit in the head. Don’t worry about it. Do you want to go to the therapy room and work on gross motor skills?”

Bucky peers over Clint’s shoulder at Steve. “You can go. I’m good.”

“You sure?”

Bucky smiles and slowly picks up the arm with the claw and waves to Steve. “Go.”

“Okay, okay.”

He grabs Bucky’s good hand and reels him in for a hug. They embrace and then Steve says his goodbyes, asking Clint to take good care of him. When Steve leaves, a bit of the tension that’s followed him since that mission went bad all those years ago fades. Steve makes it home before the 3 pm time and so he messages Tony telling him he could make it for a meeting now. 

_Nope, we are set for 7. Go and take the rest of the day. Paint or something. Be an artist_.

Steve stares at the text. He’s half amazed that he didn’t even think about it. He hasn’t touched any of the art supplies that Tony bought for him. He’s actually never stepped foot into the small studio in his Tower apartment. So he does. And he loses himself in stages over it. He’s never had the quality or the quantity of supplies. He touches the paints, the shelves, the brushes. Something tight and constricted in his chest releases and he feels like he can breathe. He smiles. That might be the first time in his whole life he’s felt free enough to breathe. To take in air and to release it without the burden of his sicknesses or his anxieties. He rips off his shirt and hangs it by the door and then starts. He falls into the dream, the creative spirit, so easily that he nearly misses when Ian gets home. 

The little boy rushes into the art studio his hand gripping a piece of paper with drawing of an elephant holding a flower with its trunk. Ian waves the paper as he jumps into Steve’s embrace. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Dadda, I made this, I made this for Jett. When she comes back, can she live with us?”

Steve juggles his paint brush and his child at the same time. “Whoa, whoa.” He laughs and then just drops the paint brush so he can balance Ian in his hands. The nanny follows Ian into the art studio and immediately starts to apologize.

“Sorry, Mister Rogers, I didn’t realize-.” Jocasta smiles as Ian jumps around the room.

“No problem, Jo. We can manage from here if you want to leave early,” he says and stands up as he puts Ian back on his feet.

“If you want me to make him an afternoon snack?” 

Steve waves her off. “No, I can do it. Get home early for once.”

Jocasta giggles, her burnt auburn hair swinging in its ponytail. “I live in the building, Mister Rogers.” She smiles. “I gotta meet my friends for dinner. Say hello to Bucky for me.” 

She disappears and then Ian sticks his tongue out at the door as she leaves. “Ian, that’s not nice.”

“She only comes because she loves Bucky.” He rolls his eyes and then seems to remember what Jo just said. “Snack!”

Over the course of the late afternoon and into the evening, Steve feeds Ian and plays with him. They talk a lot about Jett, his sister that went missing when Zola went nuts. Steve makes a mental note to talk to Sharon Carter about Jett. He gets a text from Bucky announcing that he’s headed out for a beer with Clint. That seems weird but Steve only shrugs it off. 

When Jarvis appears to take care of Ian, Steve cringes. He’s not even cleaned up. “Give me ten minutes!” Steve rushes to the master bathroom, tears off the rest of his paint smeared clothes and hops into the shower. He scrubs and washes his hair. Once he gets out of the shower, he towel dries his hair and then finger combs it. He looks awful. Scoffing, he goes to his closet and pulls out a button down shirt and slacks. He’s going back to work, after all. He collects his portfolio of artist names and samples of their work. Jarvis has Ian sitting quietly at the dining table munching on chicken nuggets and apple slices by the time Steve emerges. 

“Okay, I gotta go, sweetie.”

Ian grumbles. “No sweetie.” He jumps up on his seat and screams, “For I am Nomad!”

“Okay, whatever, get down,” Steve says and jostles him to his seat. He kisses his son on this crown of his head and thanks Jarvis before snatching up his portfolio again and rushing to the elevator. He’s already five minutes late. Jittery. That’s all he can call it as the elevator goes to the penthouse apartment. He’s been here a few times for the interviews and once or twice during the beginning of his work for the Maria Stark Foundation, but mainly he stays to the lower floors of the Tower.

The doors open and he half expects to see Pepper in the expansive open space of the penthouse. Instead, Tony pokes his head up from the lounge area and waves to him. “Hey, come on over. I was worried you couldn’t make it.” He raises his phone. “I was just about to text you.”

Already he screwed up with the boss, Steve half smiles and apologizes, “Sorry I kind of got carried away with a project.”

Tony pops up onto his feet which Steve can see are bare from his vantage point above the conversation pit. “Project? Tell me it’s art?”

“Well,” Steve says and clears his throat. “A little.”

Tony claps his hands and hops over the back of the couch. He’s graceful and strong and Steve wishes he would have worn jeans because he doesn’t want to broadcast a tent in his pants. Thankfully, Tony grabs the portfolio out of Steve’s hands – which is amazing because the man does not like to be handed things.

“We’re not here for work,” Tony says. “We’re here so I can apologize for a heap of things. Pepper says I’m not self-aware. Well, not that. She says I’m not emotionally aware of other people’s feelings and I get too self-involved. She’s probably right. Pepper is right about everything.”

Steve’s concedes that point. Otherwise he’s too stunned to react.

“Tonight, we get to continue what we started at the pool after I apologize for the trip we took and for the interruption the other day.” Tony stands there, proud and smiling. Steve’s not sure how to react.

He latches onto the last part of the statement. “The interruption. But I thought, Mister Ta- Mister Rhodes was like your bo-.” He stops and gathers up his courage. “You called him sweetcakes.”

“Oh, get used to that,” Tony says with a glint in his eyes. “I always tease Rhodey. I think he’s interested in Carol, or maybe Pepper. But Pepper might be dating my chauffeur. I’m not sure. It’s like a soap opera.” 

The list of names batters Steve and he squints at Tony and says, “What?”

Tony only shakes his head. “Nothing. Just tell me that you’ll like to have dinner with me and let me kiss you?”

“I’m not sure,” Steve says. It’s not a good idea. What if things go sour? What if they go wrong? “I need this job.”

Tony staggers backward away from Steve’s personal space. “Listen, this is not contingent upon you keeping your job. Never. I would not do that. This isn’t harassment. This is honest to goodness interest.”

“You don’t know me,” Steve says.

“Well, how about you let me get to know you, and maybe you can get to know me outside what you read in the tabloids.” When Steve hesitates, Tony smiles. “Come on, sit down. I ordered pizza!”

Tony draws Steve to the lounge area and he maneuvers Steve onto the couch. The pizza arrives even as they are settling down and Tony leaps up to get the boxes. The delivery person isn’t from the pizzeria but one of Tony’s security guards who eyes Steve with a little bit of arrogance and a touch of fear. Steve only snickers as Tony picks up the boxes, plates, and napkins from the table near the elevators where the guard placed them. He brings them to the lounge and asks Steve if he wants anything to drink.

“You’ll drink wine, right?”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t know if he should encourage Tony especially since he admitted to having a drinking problem. 

“A little wine.” Tony goes to the bar and retrieves a bottle from the fridge. It’s a white and, with two glasses, comes back to the couch. He begins to open the wine. “So the art studio. You liked it?”

“Yeah it has some stuff I’ve never been able to afford before,” Steve says and opens the box of pizza. 

“Dig in, dig in. It’s gluten free by the way. Specialty order!” Tony says. He pours the wine. “Did you start working on anything?”

“I feel kind of out of practice, since I haven’t really had a lot of time-.”

“Oh, I get it. The old boss is working your ass off,” Tony says and offers Steve the glass. He accepts it but places it on the table as he pulls a slice off of the pie, puts it on a plate and then brings it to Tony. 

Without hesitation, Tony accepts it. “I don’t like to be handed things, Pepper told you that. But I can handle it from people I trust.” Tony shrugs at the unasked question. “I’ve done my research, Rogers. You’re one of the good guys. Went into the Army even though you should have been tossed due to your health.”

“There’s a special act of Congress that allows the military to recruit specialty service members,” Steve says as he serves himself. “They wanted me as an Antiquities expert – I minored in that in college. They would only recruit me under the Demonstration Act because of my health. They wanted me to ride a desk back home most of the time. Well, my buddy was going into a combat unit and I refused to be left behind. Then they learned about my eidetic memory, and things changed.” 

“So you effectively scammed the Army,” Tony says with a quirked brow.

“Kind of. You could look at it that way,” Steve replies. 

Tony smiles. “Got what you wanted from Uncle Sam. Was it what you wanted from the Army?”

Steve shakes his head as he chews on the pizza. “It isn’t glorious. It’s a lot of hard work and a lot of questions. Most of the time you go into the Army thinking that it’ll be clear cut who the bad guys are. Well, by the time you get out, you realize that there’s nothing farther from the truth. It’s the guys controlling everything who are the bad guys, not the guys on the street trying to eke out a living.”

“Yeah,” Tony says as he leans back. He plants his feet on the couch with his legs bent. He balances his arms on his knees. “When I decided to change everything for my company. lots of people weren’t happy. But the future isn’t in death, at least I didn’t want my legacy to be a warmonger.”

“You’ve done a lot of good,” Steve says because even though he reads the tabloids, he also knows the real story now that he’s a Stark employee.

“I try,” Tony says and then gets a faraway look, haunted and lonely. He jolts himself out of it after only a few seconds. “So what are you working on again?”

“Not much, just skills. I started a piece, but it’s simple. Figures that’s all.” Generally Steve doesn’t like to talk about his work before he’s gotten much of it done. He’s a little superstitious about losing the inspiration. “It’ll come along.”

“You sound confident. I like that.”

“Well, Bucky always says I’m too confident,” Steve replies. “He was always pulling me out of battles on the streets because I always went to the defense of kids smaller than myself.”

Tony chuckles but reaches out and holds onto Steve’s hand. “I’m not laughing at you, I swear.”

“Yes, you are, and that’s okay. Back then I was even smaller and pretty angry at the world for it. Bucky said I was like a Chihuahua.” Steve smiles. Tony’s laugh infects him and he doesn’t have to take himself so very seriously all the time. “Bucky saved me more than once from an alley fight.”

“How did you meet Bucky?”

Throughout the evening, they talk about how they met their best friends (Rhodey, as Tony calls him, is a best friend, not a boyfriend, and was met during Tony’s time at MIT). They fall into discussing their love of old classic rock. Steve goes into his love of vintage things from the 40s and Tony delights in his discussion about what movies based in those times get right and what they get wrong.

Tony claps his hands and laughs as Steve explains how they used to boil everything back then. “God, it’s like you stepped out of a time capsule or were frozen in ice for seventy years.”

Steve blushes and says, “It’s just a hobby. I’m a real history buff.”

“I remember seeing that in your apartment in Brooklyn,” Tony replies. “I never really got into history was always too busy on the science side of things.”

“In artificial intelligence?” Steve says and then Tony launches into an explanation about how to build intelligence. How it isn’t simple but a complex thing and describes the math in surprisingly easy terms. So easy that Steve starts to see it as an illustration of a repeating symbol that keeps getting more complex and intricately beautiful as Tony speaks. 

As they converse the night weaves into darkness speckled with light that shimmers through their conversation. The fireplace warms as the winds from the open balcony whisper through the room. They finish off the wine and as Tony gets up to get another bottle, Steve glances at his watch. 

“It’s after midnight,” Steve says and worries what Bucky must think that he’s stayed out so late. 

“So the boss won’t care,” Tony says and searches for the perfect wine.

Steve stands up and rubs his hands on his pants. He’s never been so nervous, not even jumping out of a plane. “Hmm, I think I should go.”

Tony gazes at him and puts the bottle he selected down. “Really?”

“Yeah, I should.”

Tony leaves the bottle at the bar and pads over to Steve. “Did I make up for the crappy trip?”

“The trip was fine, Tony,” Steve says and he keeps his voice level, firm though every nerve in his body shakes as Tony steps closer. 

“Really? You promise?” Tony focuses on Steve’s eyes, making it hard to break contact, making it impossible. The potency robs him of any autonomous decisions. Like a spell from a vampire, he falls under it. 

“I promise.” His lips are dry, so he licks them and he watches as Tony’s gaze flicks down to his mouth and back up again to his eyes. 

“How about the interruption? Can I get a do over for that too?” Tony asks. 

At any other point in Steve’s life he might have rabbited out of there, made an excuse. He’s never felt like he was small in a battle or doing what was right. He never let his health or his weaknesses win. He stood tall and fought. But this intimacy has always eluded him, frightened him. Yet Tony showed him a certain amount of frailty and vulnerability that eases Steve, that helps him accept and want more. 

He nods. “Yeah.” His words are breathless. 

And then Tony kisses him. Steve stands stock still for a moment, not reacting and then lets his body act. It comes as easily as fighting, as easily as standing up and doing the right thing. He becomes the kiss, he becomes light – hot and glittering. He’s not Icarus flying too close to the sun but the sun itself, strong and bright and burning, as Tony pursues the kiss to deepen it. Steve wraps his arms around Tony, holding and touching and knowing. Knowing for the first time in his life that he was something more, something positive, something beyond his own fears and insecurities of his body and health. 

When they break apart, Steve heaves in a breath and still holds tight onto Tony. 

“Is that good?” Tony’s own breathing mimics his own, wanting and deep.

“Very,” Steve says. “Very much.”

Tony searches his face and then says, “I think it means we should probably try this out again. Would you like that?”

“Very much,” Steve repeats. Good bye wasn’t as long and as drawn out as Steve thought it might be, because he escaped as soon as he could. He didn’t want it to end, but at the same time he didn’t want it to sour. Too many times in his life, the opportunity for something more dissipated.

When he sleeps that night, the dreams of the mission – the one that went terribly wrong – don’t haunt him. He finds a peace and tranquility yet at the same time a longing growing in him. He’s never done something like this before, acted on his attraction to men. He swallows down his fears, his doubts. It’s like getting on a rollercoaster. He would never tell Bucky, but even though he’d get on one and puke afterwards, he always loved the thrill. Of course, he doesn’t want to puke after a date with Tony. What he wants to do – well he wants to touch him and kiss him and know every inch of him. He imagines what the touch of his muscular frame must feel like, how the ridges feel, the sinews feel, even how the roughness of his scars feel. It brings the longing to a fruition and Steve finds himself nearly crying with frustration in the shower one morning not long after his ‘date’ with Tony. He lays his head on the tile and lets the water beat down on him. Sure he can jerk off as much as he wants, but the need to have hands on him, to be handled and kissed and -. He stops. 

He wants so much to be fucked. 

The water sprays over him and he closes his eyes. He can do this. He was a damned Captain in the US Army. He went into a mission and saved his friend when everyone else told him he couldn’t do it. He can handle the truth. He can handle a relationship.

Is that what he’s embarking on?

The thought flutters and lingers and he wants it so much. Talking to Tony changed Steve’s perceptions. He saw something more beyond the headlines. When Tony talked about his work he wove new perceptions and understandings in Steve’s mind, and Steve saw the same thing happen to Tony when they talked about Steve’s passions. They balanced and fit together well. 

So he accepts that he’s venturing into the unknown. He’s not a stranger to risk, in fact Bucky would probably say he has a tendency to jump in before finding out how deep the water is. Without taking a saving breath, Steve leaps and hopes to god that what he feels is true.


	3. Chapter 3

PART III  
“The court will rule on Mister Zola’s parental rights,” Sharon says. She has her laptop open on Steve’s dining room table and they’re going over the adoption. “He’s supposed to be in court next week.”

“What for this time?” Steve says as he sets out mugs for tea. “When’s his trial anyhow?”

Sharon rubs at her forehead. “I don’t know, Steve. His lawyer, Ross, keeps throwing all kinds of technicalities to keep the trial from starting. I don’t know what his play is.”

“Is that Everett Ross?” Steve stops as he pours the hot water.

“Yeah, you know him?” 

Steve shakes his head in disgust. “Yeah, I know him. He’s a bastard. He owned the building I had my art studio in. He threw out all my art supplies and my work. Most of what I rescued ended up trashed.” 

“Wow, did you call the police?” Sharon asks as he places the mug on the table.

“No,” Steve replies. “What could I do? I was being evicted.” He clears his mind and gets back to the task at hand. “So do we have a court date for the parental rights?”

“Yes. It would be good if we had Jett around to testify.” Sharon pulls up a file on her laptop. She points to the photo of a young woman in her twenties. “Is this the person you think that Jett might have left with?”

“Yeah, that’s Wanda Maximoff. She had a brother, too. Pietro, I think?” Steve reads the file. “You don’t think that Jett’s in any danger?” All he can think of is Ian’s desire to see his sister again, how many drawings and little trinkets his son created for her. 

“Not that I can tell. While Wanda might be a little eccentric, she’s not into the drug scene or even drinking. She’s more of a New Age kind of person? Vegan, organic life style.”

“That doesn’t sound bad,” Steve says. “Any clue where she might be? I think you said she’d gone to California at one time.”

“That lead dried up. Now, we have a lead upstate. So I am going enlisted the help of a local agency, Shield.” When Steve reacts with surprise she adds, “Do you know them?”

“Yeah, I have a job there, or will, if this whole thing at the Foundation doesn’t work out,” Steve says.

Sharon surveys the huge apartment, the furnishings, all of the amenities. “And tell me it’s working out, because you’d be nuts to let this slip through your fingers.” Steve bows his head to try and hide his reaction but Sharon catches it. “Oh, you like it here. Oh, oh you like him too!”

“Please, please don’t tell Ian or Bucky,” Steve says. It dawns on him that he’s just blown his cover with Ian’s social worker. He hisses and sits back in his chair. “You shouldn’t know either. Pretend you don’t.”

She laughs and pats his hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything. I’m a social worker, Steve, I understand human dynamics and I also know a thing or two about Stark. He might put up a show for the tabloids, but what I’ve seen in the last few years contradicts that.

Just as Steve’s about to respond, the elevator rings and he turns to see the doors opening to reveal the subject of their conversation. Tony steps into the apartment. His white suit and tie against the sky blue of his shirt shines in the morning sun. Steve stutters and stands up. “To-Tony?”

“I heard you were coming to work late today, so I decided to see if I could walk you to work,” Tony says and slides the rose colored sunglasses down his nose. “I didn’t expect company.” He stares at Sharon like she’s a competitor in a boxing match.

“Oh, no, no. Sharon’s nobody. No, not a nobody.” Steve grits his teeth and starts again. “Sharon’s Ian’s social worker. You met her before. A while back.”

“Yes, yes I did,” Tony says and relaxes. He nods to her in greeting. “Good to see you, Social Worker Sharon. Hope everything is going well with the little bug-a-boo.”

“Ian is doing great. Have you spent time with him?” Sharon asks and Steve squirms and he sees she’s delighted.

“Not much, not much. Soon though, I would say,” Tony says and tilts his head to Steve. “Don’t you think?”

“May-maybe?” He can’t get a good read on Sharon. How did this whole thing get so totally out of his control? Both of them look like they’re enjoying his discomfiture. 

Thankfully Sharon bestows mercy on him. “I think that would be a great idea. The sooner the better. Now I better get moving.” She cleans up her papers, and closes up her laptop, zipping it into her bag. “I have another appointment. Thanks for seeing me so early. I’ll keep you up to date on when that court date about parental rights will be, Steve.” She offers her hand. He takes it and then with a firm shake she leaves, boarding the elevator and waving goodbye as the car’s doors close.

Steve deflates, eyes closed, head bowed. Tony steps up beside him, hand on his back with simple rubbing motions. “You okay? Bad news?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Steve looks at Tony and says, “Just more hurdles. Zola has a court date on parental rights. I don’t see how he could claim any since he’s up for murder of his wife.”

“How can I help?” Tony asks and the sincerity hits Steve right in the chest.

“I don’t know-.” Steve shakes his head. Ever since the pizza night, that one kiss, everything has been perfect between them. Although everything has moved glacially slow, Steve hasn’t worried about it. They haven’t even had a real date, but then maybe Tony doesn’t date or hates to date because it’s always in the tabloids. But Tony spends more time in the Foundation’s Art offices in the Tower, and he often sits with Steve to hash out what they are looking for in the Met wing as well as the private museum. They have coffee together and often lunch. They’ve even taken to swimming together. Steve actually thinks he might have developed a little bit of muscle – not like Tony’s, but he’s not quite so ashamed of how he looks anymore. But maybe that’s just because of Tony.

“There has to be something. Why are you worried? Zola is guilty of murder. There’s no way he’s going to get Ian back,” Tony says.

“It’s Jett,” Steve says. “I told you that Ian has an older sister, right?” Steve moves away to clear off the table of the mugs of tea. “Well, Ian didn’t see the murder. Thank God for small favors. But Jett did. She’s the only witness. Sure, Ian can say a little of what happened, but Jett knows everything.” 

“So Jett can testify against him,” Tony says. 

Steve places the cups in the sink. “Only problem is we have no idea where Jett is. She took off with friends in the neighborhood. We’ve been trying to track her down, but so far nothing. Sharon’s got Shield security on it now.”

“Shield’s good since they got rid of Ward, but let me see what I can do,” Tony says and brings out his phone. He won’t be deterred and Steve goes to finish getting ready for the day. 

Bucky left early and Ian is out with Jocasta at the library and then the park. She’s a good nanny, and Steve trusts her, but what if Zola gets off? Steve finds it hard to believe but it could happen. He nicks himself as he shaves and dabs the cut with toilet paper as Tony walks into the master bedroom. 

“I have Happy looking into things. We have a network that might be useful,” Tony says. “Hey. Let me.” He takes the tissue and gently wipes away the blood. He caresses Steve’s cheek, lightly dragging his finger along his cheek and jaw. “Exquisite.”

Blood warms Steve’s cheeks and he lowers his eyes. “I don’t think anyone has ever thought that about me, ever.”

“Well, then they don’t know what they’re looking at,” Tony whispers. “I learned a thing or two from my mother about art and beauty.” He bends down and Steve leans in, accepting another kiss and wanting so much more. The little things they’ve shared over the last weeks, the touches, the glances, the stroke of a hand down a shoulder or at the small of a back. Steve hungers for it and so much more. He’s so ready and willing but Tony pulls away and stops. 

He searches everywhere, not meeting Steve’s gaze. “Well, we have that teleconference today and then the meeting with the Board. So chop, chop.”

The abruptness startles Steve, but he puts it down to the fact they do have a pretty busy schedule today. Being truthful with himself would only mean that Steve has to face the fact that maybe Tony isn’t interested in taking their nascent relationship to the next level. Steve has always been able to ignore the stuff he just doesn’t want to come to terms with – how else would he time and time again take on neighborhood bullies when he didn’t have a chance in hell of winning. 

“Okay, I’m almost ready,” Steve agrees and at that Tony exhales as if he was waiting Steve to call him on it. That alone sends doubt worming into Steve’s head. He takes a chance as he piles up the papers and tablet he was working on last night into his messenger bag. “So, I was thinking – maybe we could go out some time.”

“Out?” Tony stops dead. “You mean outside?”

Steve grimaces. “I mean out on a date. You know, we’ve kind of-.” The screech of brakes in Steve’s head almost deafens him. “If you don’t want to… I just thought we were…” What did he think? What does he think? What does Tony think?

“Oh, yes, out, out,” Tony says and that far away false look transforms his features. “Well, you know going out entails the paparazzi.” 

“Oh,” Steve says and for some reason that relieves some of the tension so that he can think a bit again. “It doesn’t have to be outside. I mean, we could go somewhere not public.”

As they walk to the elevator, Tony says, “I don’t know if you noticed or not, but going out to restaurants and things means the public.”

“I didn’t think that would be a problem,” Steve says and immediately regrets it. He’s read the tabloids. He knows how it is for Tony.

“Well, normally it wouldn’t be,” Tony says and smiles. “But with you, it’s different.”

_Different_. Now, if anything is a dagger to the heart, that is it. Of course, it’s different. Steve’s not the handsome man with the six-pack abs. He should shut his trap and just accept that Tony’s dallying with him and that’s it, but Steve always had a problem with people judging him. 

“You know, if you don’t want to be around me, if you don’t want to date me, then just say it. We can just be friends,” Steve says and there’s grit in his teeth and fire on his tongue. Every indication steered Steve in a different direction, but he’s not an expert, he’s not attuned to how relationship work.

“What?” Tony says as they step into the lift.

“Like you said going out would show the world me and we wouldn’t want the great Tony Stark to be connected to the runt of the litter now would we?” Steve spits back at Tony.

“What? That’s what you think of me?” Tony says. “I made the first move with you. I saw you ten years ago and fell. I watched you for years. Waiting, and that’s what you think of me?”

After that the silence in his head roars at him. Steve swallows down and then says, “Well, what else am I supposed to think?” _I saw you ten years ago and fell._ rings through his head. 

Tony clasps his hand and says, “I don’t want them to ruin it. I’ve waited for so long. You were graduating from high school, too young for me then. So I waited. The talent and the tenacity you possessed. I mean, damn it, I don’t know where it comes from – because, hell, Steve, you must be some kind of laboratory experiment. Or something. Where does it all come from? I heard you went into the Army, I nearly choked. But you survived and came out a hero to boot. I just don’t.” He stops and then whispers, “I’m damaged goods. So much of my life is ruined, wrecked by my own actions or by the media. Why do you think I’m working on AI to clean up fake news? It’s selfish in a way. I just don’t want you to-.”

Steve jumps in. “Stop, no. I won’t. You don’t have to think that. Sure, I know what the tabloids say.” Mentally he promises never to read them again. “But we shouldn’t be afraid of them. What do we care what other people think?”

The elevator announces their floor and Tony laughs, “Of course you would say that.”

“Please, Tony. If I can put together a date for us, would you go?”

He only thinks for a few seconds and then nods. “Nothing too public.”

Already an idea forms and Steve cocks a brow at Tony. “Trust me.”

“This is my worry. I already do,” Tony says. Pepper looks up from her desk and questions them without saying a word. Tony only smirks in response, and Steve scurries away. He knows when to leave the premises when the lady tiger gets out her claws.

It’s not Bucky’s claws that Steve’s reticent of when he confronts his friend later in the evening. But maybe he should be. “All I want you to do is to babysit overnight.” 

Bucky lounges on the couch. Thankfully, Ian’s in the next room playing with Jocasta. “What? So you can shag your boss.”

The heat rises to Steve’s cheeks and it’s not from embarrassment but sheer rage. “What’s wrong with that? He’s interested. Do you see a line out there interested in me, Bucky?”

“He’s your boss,” Bucky snaps back and sits up. His prosthetic arm motions are still awkward and clumsy. “You do know that, right.”

“Oh, are you scared I’m going to screw up and you won’t have the posh apartment?” Steve asks and the shame hits him. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn-.”

“In fact, I’m worried that he’s going to screw you over. You read the tabloids, I know you do. It’s your secret vice. He loves ‘em and leaves ‘em. Poor Prince Thor from Norway literally had to have his brother come and drag his ass home. The big guy was sobbing outside of the Tower.”

“There was never any evidence of that,” Steve says and paces the room. He just wants one night. Why can’t he have one night? “You know the photo was shopped. Everyone does.”

“But everyone also knows he’s a playboy. Everyone, Steve,” Bucky says and he’s on his feet. “I know you throw your heart and soul into these things.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” The words Tony used only today ring in his head - _I saw you ten years ago and fell._ “I think he’s serious, Buck.”

“Serious, what does that even mean to someone like him?” Bucky asks and the disapproving glare could crack through armor and shields. 

“Are you going to do this for me or not?” Steve asks. He’s not having this conversation. If his heart gets trampled on, that’s for him to deal with not for Bucky to decide. “I’m not a child and if I want to take a chance I should be able to.”

Bucky grumbles and then says, “I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“I can’t get hurt if nothing ever happens to me, Buck. Come on, it’s date.” Steve stops and then adds, “You’ve always wanted me to try. This is me trying, Buck. He’s interested. Honest to God interested.”

Bucky nods. “Fine, okay. But I’m having a party. A big one with lots of beer.” 

“While you’re taking care of my son?” Steve cocks an eyebrow at him. He knows that Bucky isn’t about to go through with his threat. “Well, do what you want. I have to go plan out my date.”

“Oh you mean your romantic getaway?” Bucky teases as Steve leaves to go to his room. He closes the door and then gets his phone. In seconds, he has Sam on the line. “Hey, Sam.”

“Steve? Why are you whispering?”

“I have a favor to ask. Could you do something for me?”

“What’s that?”

“You know my old apartment? The one in Brooklyn?” Steve asks.

“Yeah?”

“Well, I made sure to keep the lease just in case this gig didn’t work out.” Since he moved, he’d moved most of his belongings out of the apartment. “Is there any way you could meet me there to help me out with a project?”

Sam pauses before answering. “Are we talking about a legal project?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Of course, just please?” 

“God you sound desperate. This must be about a girl or a guy. You want to bring them back – oh –oh. Oh!” Sam hoots a little. Steve can almost see that half grin over the phone. “My man’s getting some.”

“Sam, please!”

“Oh no, you do not get to take this moment away from me,” Sam says. “After all these years, you are finally seeing the light. Yes I will be there with bells on. What do you need?”

Steve details everything and they make plans to go to the apartment tomorrow night to fix everything. When he disconnects, he throws himself on the bed. Saturday seems like a life time away. 

A knock on the door rouses from his half doze and he calls, “Come in.”

Bucky cracks the door open. “You decent?”

“Yes.” Steve sits up, rubs the sleep from his eyes. Bucky slips into the room and sits down next to Steve on the bed. The day has darkened considerably and Steve can only see the glint in Bucky’s eyes and the sharp steel of the prosthetic claw. 

“I just got off the phone with Sharon,” Bucky says. “She wanted to talk to you, but you weren’t answering.”

“Must have fallen asleep. What time is it?”

“Just past seven,” Bucky says. “You’ve been working hard. Sharon called because of Zola.”

“What about him?” Steve clutches his hands into fist. 

“Something went down at court today. I’m not sure how Sharon explained it, but it seems like because Jett isn’t around to testify the defense attorney asked for the case to be thrown out.” Bucky watches him, testing his reaction.

“Well, it wouldn’t be. There’s other evidence that he killed his wife.” Steve knows this – he recalls the particulars of the case. “I know that I gave my written testimony. I told the prosecutor I would be willing to testify. I walked in and saw the whole thing.”

“But did you see who killed the Mrs?” Bucky asks. “Because Zola’s defense lawyer is saying it was Jett. That she was influenced by the Maximoff twins and ran off with them.”

“What?” Steve can’t stay seated. “Jett was terrified. Zola was half out of his mind.”

“They’re saying he was half out of his mind from grief. That Jett killed her mother.”

“He was threatening Ian,” Steve says and the room pulses with his fears, with his anger, with his anxiety. The little light coming in through the curtained window throbs and pierces his brain. “No. This is not how it happened.”

“Zola’s saying that you took Ian away and that all he was doing was trying to save his little boy from his deranged sister.”

“That’s a crock of shit and you know it, Bucky.” He knows he’s not debating with Bucky. Don’t shoot the messenger. But it feels like a personal affront. He closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and then opens his eyes again to focus on Bucky. “So, what did the judge say?”

“Judge put the trial on recess until he can review the evidence. Both the defense lawyer and the prosecutor have to talk to him in his chambers on Friday. They don’t expect him to come back with a decision until next week.” 

“We have to find Jett,” Steve says and sinks back onto the bed. Head his hands, he can only think of little Ian in the hands of that mad man. “God, what if he gets Ian back?”

Bucky wraps his arm around Steve. “I’m here for you. You know that right? I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

“Thanks, Buck. I can handle it on my own.”

“That’s just it, you don’t have to.” No words come to him. Bucky keeps an arm slung over his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. You said that Sharon called in Shield to look for Jett.”

“Yeah, and Tony, Tony said he would help. I have to call him.” Steve says and grabs his phone as he stands and then starts to pace around the room.

“You think he really wants to help?”

“You’ll see, Buck. He wants to help, I swear it.” He stares at the phone for a full minute before he comes to the conclusion. “You know, I think I’ll just go up there.”

“What?” Bucky grasps Steve’s arm as he’s about to leave the room. “You are not going up there.”

“Yeah I am. Tony needs to hear the whole story, the whole thing. He needs to know what’s going on. He can’t help if he doesn’t know what an evil person Zola is.” Steve tugs his arm away from Bucky. “Watch Ian for me.”

Bucky only mutters reply as Steve rushes to the elevator. He directs it to the penthouse and then waits as it gets permission to proceed. It takes a few minutes before the car lifts and he ends up on the penthouse level. The door opens and he steps out. He glances around but only an empty living room greets him. “Tony?”

“In here.”

Steve’s never actually been anywhere in the penthouse except for the living room off of the elevator. He walks down the hallway. The one wall is a rock wall with a water fall streaming down it. Lights reflect back from the mote at the floor. He turns the corner to find the kitchen. Tony peers over his shoulder and smiles. “Do you know how to make an omelet?”

“Hmm, yes?”

“Can you do this? I think it’s a mess.” Steve hesitates as Tony scoops out the glop of runny eggs from the frying pan. “This doesn’t look right at all.”

“Why are you making omelets now?” Steve joins him at the stove top. The kitchen opens up to another living area that’s more comfortable and less austere. There’s a stone fireplace and big overstuffed couches. A massive flat screen television perches over the fireplace. The coffee tables and end tables are made of thick rough woods. The island counter, where the stovetop lives, separates the working kitchen from the living room area. Stools line the counter and to the right side there’s a dining table. 

“I had a taste for them. No one lets me eat them. I’m not allowed because of my heart,” Tony says and makes a pitiful frown at Steve. “All they give me are gluten free waffles. Once in a while I want a damned egg.”

“Okay,” Steve says and boots Tony aside. “I can make you an omelet but only two eggs and with skim milk if you have it.”

“But I get butter on my toast,” Tony agrees as he goes to the stainless steel fridge and digs out the ingredients. “Can you put some spinach in the omelet?” 

“Sure.” Steve takes all of the ingredients. He washes and chops the spinach leaves. He whisks the eggs and then adds a dollop of butter into the frying pan. Tony’s smile sparkles. “I take it butter is a no-no.”

Tony glowers at him. “It’s not like I have high cholesterol. But the doctor wants to do preventive stuff. I’m not even allowed to exercise. I swim without telling him.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Steve says. “But then I’m not a cardiologist. My cardio guy is always selling the next great exercise routine to me.”

“Well, your cardio guy is probably not named Doctor Doom.” 

Steve cringes and shakes his head. “That’s a terrible name.”

“Tell me about it,” Tony says and watches as Steve fixes him a perfectly folded omelet with toast on the side. He claps his hands and grins. “Thank you!” Taking the plate that Steve loaded up and put on the counter Tony picks out a fork and goes to the living room area. “Come, come. Obviously you didn’t come up here to make me an omelet, but you are a god in that arena. Did anyone tell you that?”

“According to Ian, the only thing I make that’s any good is mac and cheese and that comes out of a box.” Steve shivers at the thought.

“I bet it’s like food from the gods,” Tony says and points with his fork. “Come, sit.” He’s talking around a full mouth. 

Steve follows Tony to the living room area and sits on the couch. He’s ramrod straight and when he doesn’t relax, Tony puts the food aside. Dusting off his hands, Tony then asks, “What is it?”

“I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.”

“I think this might be lunch but whatever -.” Tony focuses on Steve. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Ian and Jett.” Steve settles in and explains the whole awful truth. “Arnim Zola was a neighbor in Brooklyn. The family emigrated from Eastern Europe. I’m not sure from where- but they were pretty reclusive. Jett and Ian seemed to adjust pretty well. I mean Ian was a baby when they first moved into the neighborhood. There were rumors about the family, but I didn’t listen. Until there was a block party and I saw how Zola treated his wife and his daughter. It was pretty horrible. I intervened and Zola went ballistic. He threatened, and told the kids they weren’t allowed to hang around me.” Steve takes in a breath and then continues. “I kept my distance, but it became more and more apparent the rumors were true.” Tony doesn’t say anything, he only listens to the horrible story of two children terrorized by their father over the years until finally everything broke and their mother ended up dead. “When it happened, when Zola shot his wife, I happened to be outside. I heard the gunfire and ran into the house. I saw the results. I got Ian away from Zola and someone in the neighborhood called the police.” Jett ran away, and Steve welcomed Ian with open arms. “Ian wouldn’t let anyone else care for him and I ended up fostering him. Now, Zola’s blaming everything on Jett. Saying she killed her mother. The gun was wiped clean so no one knows who handled it. Ian didn’t see anything – Jett is the witness. She’s gone. We really need to find her.”

Tony lowers his gaze and Steve sees a tension stretch across his shoulders. He glances back up at Steve and says, “I know what happened to these children. I was in that exact place more than once. My father beat me and punished me all the time. If I didn’t get straight As – which I didn’t all the time, when I questioned having to build the bigger bomb all the time, when I was more than just a wild teenager.” He huffs out a breath as if to steady himself. “Before they left for the Christmas party, we’d had a fight. A big one. He wanted me to use my designs for an AI and put it into an armored suit. I’d started to do it, had the design of the suit finished, but I never completed it. I said no. And well, I never spoke to him again after that. He died and killed my mother. Even though he didn’t shoot her, he’s responsible. I’m responsible. I should have gone to pick up my mom. She’d called me to ask me to come and pick them up. I didn’t.”

“Jett left with her friends. She ran away.” Steve says in quiet tones. “She has to face her responsibilities. I need to find her.”

“And we will, we will.” Tony clasps Steve’s hand in his own. “I promise you. I have Happy on it. He’s not only my chauffer but my head of security. He’ll have the best men and women looking for her. I promise you.”

Steve bows his head. The rush of emotions tide over him, too strong, too potent for him to remain untouched. “Thank you, Tony. I don’t know what I would do if I lost Ian. He’s my son, even if he’s not my blood.”

Tony touches Steve’s chin, lifts his head so their eyes can meet. “Blood has nothing to do with it.”

The well of hope washes away the dread, the terror of Zola. “We can do this.”

“Yes, we can.” Tony promises, and Steve believes him. “We don’t have to be superheroes to make a difference.”

“No, no we don’t,” Steve says.

Before he leaves, Steve convinces Tony to go out with him. “Remember that little apartment I had?” 

Tony scarfs down the omelet, chewing loudly and with zest. Tony nods. “Yeah, you had a lot of stuffed animals. And books about WWII. It was a weird combination.”

“Well, I still have that little place.”

Tony screws up his mouth into a frown and says, “Why? Don’t you like it here?”

Putting up his hands to ward off any questions, Steve replies, “I love it here. But I got the rent at a cut rate, and if this didn’t work out, I couldn’t afford to lose it.”

“So you had a backup plan?” Tony asks and it sounds like he’s accusing Steve of something dirty.

“Well, what was I supposed to do? You had a lot of swings of emotions.” Steve releases a breath. “I’m planning on giving it up, if that helps.”

“A little.” Tony mashes the rest of the omelet with the toast and then folds it over onto the bread to shovel it into his mouth. 

“Well, it’s the perfect place for a date,” Steve says and smiles. “You come over at seven on Saturday? I’ll have everything ready. We can spend as much time as we want.”

“It’s like going out, but not.”

“Exactly. Do you think Happy can lose the paparazzi?” He really wants this to work out. He wants them to spend the night, to embark on the next phase of their relationship. His body aches for it. 

“Not Happy,” Tony considers. “No, Happy is going to be one hundred percent busy tracking down Jett, but Logan. Christ, that man can lose anything and anyone.”

“Well, then it’s settled. You can come to my apartment at seven on Saturday. I’ll have it all prepared.” 

Throughout the next few days even with the promise of so much help to find Jett, Steve stays on high alert. Every extra minute, Steve spends time searching the internet for any sign of Jett. Unfortunately while he knows Ian very well now, he hadn’t then and so, he knows little about Jett’s life or interests. He tries to ask Ian, but the little boy only grows quiet and sad when his older sister is mentioned. 

When he meets Sam at the old apartment, Steve’s on edge and of course Sam spots it. As they start dusting and cleaning up the place since it hasn’t been lived in for over a month and a half, Steve asks Sam, “Do you remember Ian’s sister, Jett?”

Sam lifts a shoulder as he puts some of the food into the fridge. “Kind of. The Zola family really kept to themselves. That father was a bastard.”

“Yeah, I remember that much. But anything about Jett? What she liked?”

“Strangely enough,” Sam says. “Anytime I saw her she was always trying to impress her father. Like she was trying to make him focus on everything she did and take Zola’s attention away from Ian.”

“Yeah I kind of remember that as well.” Steve pulls out his vacuum that might be older than he is and starts to clean. They continue their work for the next hour, quietly helping one another. 

When they are almost done, Sam brings out his tote bag. He puts it on the kitchen table and starts pulling out strings of lights, a tablecloth, napkins that aren’t paper, and candles. “I thought it might be good to add the Wilson touch ala my mom.”

“Sam, really? These are hers?” Steve says and touches the embroidered tablecloth. “My mom had one from her grandma. Came over from Ireland, but she had to sell it along with her wedding silver when I got sick.” Steve falls silent. He was such a burden on his mother. Could he do that to Tony? “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?” Sam asks as he starts the string the lights along the living room walls. 

“It’s just that.” He had this same concern, this same worry, when he agreed to foster Ian. Steve’s not a healthy person, not like Sam. “I might be better than I was before, the Army actually did a lot for me. But the fact remains I’m not well. My heart – my lungs.”

Sam jumps down from the stepstool. “Oh no, you are not chicken shitting out of this now.”

“I’m not chicken shitting or whatever. When I fostered Ian I worried about it too. How can I put the kid through it?” 

“That is not something you should be thinking. Don’t you call that ableist talk?” Sam says.

Steve only shakes his head. He doesn’t confess that the other day, after he had a particularly difficult conversation with the prosecutor in Zola’s case, he ended up in the men’s room at their offices in a full-blown asthma attack. They’d asked him to come to their offices to discuss his written testimony and to see if there was anything else they could glean in order to move the case forward and decrease the focus on Jett. It didn’t go well and Steve suffered through his worse attack in years. He’d over used the rescue inhaler and ended up with a rapid heartbeat, the shakes, and a headache. Getting home had been a chore, more like battling alien invaders than just navigating the throngs of people in the subway. Luckily he made it there and went to bed for a few hours before Jocasta brought Ian home from seeing one of the Lego movies. 

“Well, Sam, I’ve always been a pragmatist.”

“I thought you were more of an optimist. You always think the best of people. Hell, you even told me that you have faith that people will do the right thing,” Sam says. “Course, we were about to be blown to hell.”

Steve smiles. “That means I have to do the right thing, too.”

Sam slings his arm around Steve. “How about you realize that doing the right thing also means doing the right thing for you.” He lets that sink into Steve before he adds, “Now let’s get the bedroom done.” He winks at Steve and jostles him. Steve can’t help but smile. 

As Saturday approaches, Steve must go through his plans fifty times. Friday afternoon is especially laborious. Working through artists’ portfolios and then contacting them with a personalized email seems like a herculean task. He ends up going through the last invoices from their recent purchases instead. No one said that management was fun. It’s not like he’s hunting down the world’s super villains. It keeps him busy enough that when Tony hovers over his desk, Steve nearly jumps out of his socks at the sound of Tony’s voice.

“Jett and her friends didn’t go far.”

Steve jerks and turns around to see Tony with his knuckles on the desk and smugly pleased with himself. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me. Jett didn’t go far. She’s in Queens.”

“Queens?” Steve finds that a little too easy. 

“Yep, Queens,” Tony says and smiles. “Seems her friends Wanda and Pietro, did you say? They have family in the area. They’ve been hiding in plain sight.” 

“Well, we have to go there,” Steve says as he starts to get up. Tony grabs his wrist and stops him.

“Actually I think if we approach her she might run. Remember I told you there was a kid I mentored. Well, he lives over in Queens with his aunt. I asked him to conveniently run into her.” Tony releases Steve. “Let things go naturally and see if we can bring her in without any trouble.”

“Okay, are you sure? This means a lot here,” Steve says.

“I’m sure,” Tony says. “He’s going to try and meet up with her on Saturday. According to my sources she spends some time at the local gym on Saturday afternoons. Once Peter talks to her, I would bet by Sunday morning you’ll get a call.”

“Wow, Tony, that’s wonderful.” Bringing Jett back and getting her to testify was paramount. It doesn’t hurt to think of how it would help Ian in his recovery from the trauma as well. “Ian will love it. I’m so grateful. How can I thank you?”

“How about coming up to the penthouse tonight and watching some movies. I know you have our date planned tomorrow night, but I thought we could just chill out,” Tony says and he’s more relaxed than he’s been in ages, since Steve met him.

“Sure, just let me check in with Ian and Bucky.”

When Steve broaches the subject to Bucky not fifteen minutes later, his friend raises his shoulders in a shrug and says, “No can do. Sorry, I got a date. Since you ate up my entire weekend because you have to go get shagged by your boss, I need to see Nat toni-.”

Ian walks into the room with Jocasta following, her red ponytail swings to and fro as she walks. Ian eats an apple slice, points at Bucky, and then asks, “What does shagging mean?”

Steve scowls at Bucky and then turns to his son. “Not important. How was your day, big guy?” He suppresses the urge to tell Ian about the lead on Jett. It isn’t necessary right now. 

“Good. I want to shag Jo-Jo.”

Jocasta barks out a laugh and Bucky snickers. Steve only rolls his eyes. “That’s not nice. Now, don’t use that word. It’s an adult word.”

Jocasta chimes in. “I can stay a little later tonight, Steve. I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep, not problem,” Jocasta says and bends down to Ian’s level. “So what do you say we have a Transformer verse Barbie war tonight.” 

Ian screws up his face and says, “Always with the war. How about they shag?”

Jocasta takes Ian by the hand and hauls him toward the kitchen, telling him it’s almost time for dinner. Steve crosses his arms over his chest and glowers at Bucky. “Thanks for that one.”

“Well, what am I supposed to think? You’re getting all ready to go get shagged. That’s what’s happening tomorrow night, isn’t it?” 

Steve marches off to his bedroom. He tears off his tie and tosses it on the bed. “Why is that a problem? I would like to think about me once in a while. Why do you have such a problem with my choice? This is my choice. I like Tony. And for your information, Tony found Jett.”

“He what?” Bucky says as he leans against the door frame to Steve’s room. 

“The other day I asked Tony if there was any way he could help find Jett. Well, he agreed and he told me that he found her.”

“Found Jett?” Ian’s voice squeals behind Bucky. He bursts into the room and hops on the bed, jumping up and down.

Hurrying in, Jocasta says, “I’m so sorry, Steve. He just got away from me.”

Steve only sighs and says, “It’s fine, Jo. I can deal with it.”

She eyes him, studying him to see if he’s really upset. He waves her away as he sits on the bed, catching his son and bringing him into a bear hug. “You know that I’m trying to find her, right?”

“You found her, you found her!” His eyes are bright and happy and oh so innocent.

“We think we did. But you know,” Steve says and glances up at Bucky once before looking back at Ian. “You know how it was when she left. How scary it was?” Ian settles and the light dims in his eyes. Steve hates it so much, but there’s nothing to be done for it. He believes in honesty. “Well, Jett’s still kind of scared.”

Ian chews on his fingernails. “She don’t hafta be scared. She got you too, right?”

“Yes, she does,” Steve says though he doesn’t really know her much at all. “She has me. And she has Bucky, even Mister Tony. Do you remember Mister Tony?” Ian and Tony haven’t had a lot of time to get to know one another. That’s Steve’s fault. He’s been treading that wire very carefully. “Well, Mister Tony is helping Daddy find Jett. He thinks he found her. But we have to be careful not to scare her. So we’re going to have a friend reach out to her to let her know it’s okay.”

“That he won’t come back. He won’t hurt her anymore?” Ian says and bites at his hand. Bucky slips away as Steve hugs his son close.

“He’s not going to hurt you anymore. I won’t let him. If there’s any strength in me, I am not going to let him hurt you or Jett.” Ian clings to him just as Bucky enters the room with Ian’s tattered Pooh bear. 

“Here you go kid,” Bucky says and snuggles the bear up against Ian’s shoulder. Ian grasps it and nuzzles into Steve. After a moment, Bucky leaves them. It takes another five minutes but Steve gets Ian to calm down, to let the nightmares fade, and then he calls to Jocasta. She comes running. 

“Can you take him? I’m going to get ready.” Maybe he shouldn’t go. He stops. “Ian, do you need Daddy to stay home with you? I don’t have to go out.” He hears the ring of the elevator as it arrives. It is already time.

“It’s Nat,” Bucky calls. He hangs his head around the frame of the door. “Don’t worry. We’ll stay in.”

“Are you sure?” It would mean they would have to stay in two nights in a row. “What about tomorrow?”

“It’s fine. We’ll have a party. Right, Jo?”

Jocasta giggles and agrees. Sometimes, Steve thinks Ian is right that she might have a little bit of a crush on Bucky. Steve considers Ian – this has to be his choice. “What do you think Ian? Do you want Daddy to stay home?”

Ian glances at Bucky, then at Jocasta, and finally at Steve. “Go. You go.” He gets a sparkle in his eyes. “I can stay up late when you’re out.”

Well, at least the kid still had his sense of humor and silliness. “We will see about that.” Ian climbs down off of Steve’s lab and runs over to Bucky, arms in the air. He’s really getting too old to be picked up, but Bucky manages it even with his one arm and the claw. Ian seems fascinated with the claw. He plucks at it and Bucky uses it like a shark while singing the Jaws music. 

“Get ready,” Bucky says in between the Da-dum, Da-dum sounds. He leaves with Ian in his arms and Jocasta pulls the door closed as she exits. 

Steve stands there, a little lost. Should he stay? A good father would stay. But then again, Ian adjusted and wanted to play with Bucky. Nat and Bucky already canceled their plans. He finds himself changing in his closet. And then he stops and really lets things hit him. A little over a month and half ago, he didn’t have a job, he lost his art studio, everything came crashing down on his head. He always wanted to get by on his own, make his own way. But now he’s living in the lap of luxury. His son has a nanny! It’s over the top and it makes him a little queasy when he thinks about it. Has he just taken too much from Tony, expected too much?

He throws on his jeans and a t-shirt. Maybe he should wear a button down. His mother would be tsking at him for not dressing up. He should do everything to make Tony feel respected. Tony‘s done everything for Steve. But what has Steve done for him, how has he repaid Tony?

Tearing a button down off the hanger, he dons it, shoves the shirttails into his jeans and finishes dressing as he hears the elevator arrive again. God, he wishes they had a door. There he goes again, being ungrateful. He grimaces. He needs to get himself in order. He pushes his hair back and hopes it looks okay because he really doesn’t have the time. Walking out of his bedroom he spots none other than Tony in the vestibule.

“Oh, Tony, I didn’t expect you to come down here-.”

“Tony?” A screech from the playroom and then Ian speeds by Steve to practically tackle Tony. His little arms wrap around Tony’s knees and he gazes up at him like he’s worshiping his hero. “Tony!”

“Hmm, yes?” Tony smiles, but doesn’t react. At least he doesn’t peel the boy off of him. 

“He heard that you might have found Jett.” Steve tries to pry off Ian, but Tony only bats Steve away.

“Let me be the hero for a couple of seconds,” Tony says. He ruffles Ian’s hair. “Well, we have to see if it’s really her, but I think it might be.” 

“I need to call Sharon and the prosecutor.” Steve doesn’t mean to say it out loud, and he can’t believe he didn’t think of it earlier, but it has to be done. 

“Don’t worry, I called the prosecutor, or Happy did,” Tony says. “Now, I’ll say good night to the munchkin and steal away Daddy for a while.”

“What’s a munchkin?” Ian releases Tony and looks up at Steve.

In return, Steve smiles. “Don’t you understand that reference? That is a literal sin, you should understand that reference.”

Jocasta laughs as Bucky and Nat lounge on the couch. The nanny says, “Well, maybe we can remedy that tonight.” 

Tony captures Steve’s arm and tugs him to the elevator. “Well, as I said I will be kidnapping this lad for a few hours. Off we go.”

Stumbling, Steve follows Tony into the elevator, waving goodbye to Ian as the door close. When he looks at Tony he’s met with a serious expression. “Oh, I-.”

“You’re wearing a button down.” Tony folds his arms over his chest. He’s wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt and jeans. “What’s that all about?”

Steve glances up at the numbers as they flicker by. “Nothing, just -.” The elevator arrives and Steve thanks God under his breath. The doors open but Tony isn’t letting him get away. 

As he grabs Steve’s cuff, Tony yanks on him. Steve spins on his heel and says, “What?” Yeah, this date or whatever it is – just tumbled off a cliff.

“What’s going on? You’re on edge.”

Steve pushes his fingers through his hair and shakes his head. He really should call it a night. “I’m worried about Jett. That’s all.”

“You’re sure?”

Steve nods. He’s not going to confess to Tony that it dawned on him about fifteen minutes ago how much he’s relied on him, and taken everything for granted. “I just, well, thank you for doing this. You’ve already done so much. And there I was asking you again for something more.” Does that sound like an apology? Steve doesn’t know. He’s wrapped himself up so much that he’s more twisted than a pretzel. 

“It’s fine,” Tony says and walks into the penthouse. He doesn’t let Steve’s wrist go, he holds onto him and leads him into the cozier living room space just off the kitchen. Steve hesitates as they enter the living room with its plush couches and large screen television. He wants to be able to share this moment with Tony, but then again he has everything planned for tomorrow night. “I want to do it.”

“You wanting to do it doesn’t make it so I shouldn’t feel grateful or show my gratitude.”

“No,” Tony says as he ushers Steve onto the couch with a gentle shove. “But I have a lot to make up for in this world. Before my little accident.” He touches his chest. “I was a user. I like to call it that. I used my fame to get away with things. I didn’t care that my father’s company was all about death. I had cared when I was younger, but then when my parents died, I kind of lost my way.” Tony goes to the kitchen and brings a bowl of popcorn and a couple of glasses of wine over to the table. “Not sure what type of white really goes with popcorn.” 

Settling next to Steve, Tony sits with a space between them. It’s a debate on whether or not Steve’s happy about that – he wants to be near Tony, but at the same time, he’s been planning this date at his old apartment now and he doesn’t want to go too far. He feels like a blushing virgin. Which, Lord in heaven, isn’t far from the truth.

“Hey, I don’t mean you have to drink it,” Tony says as he puts the ‘offending’ wine glass on the table. 

“What?” Steve realizes his face must telegraph what he’s thinking. “Oh, no, I was just. Forget it.”

“You are really out there tonight, aren’t you? If you’d rather not?” Tony says.

“No, no.” Steve straights his shoulders like he’s about to face off with killer robots. “I’m good. Just trying to wind down.”

“Too much to deal with?” Tony offers Steve the wine again and this time Steve takes it. If only to have something in his hand and something other than Tony with his chiseled features, and long lashes, and hair that qualifies as pornography. “Relax, and tell me about the artist in you?”

Steve glances down at the wine and says, “Art, well, I always wanted to be an artist. Sure I went into the army because my dad went there. He died for his country. I thought it was the least I could do in his memory. But truthfully, I wanted a life of the artist.”

“And you can still have that,” Tony says and sips his wine. His eyes are like jewels, deep with facets that are crystalline and luminous.

“To a degree. Maybe,” Steve says. He shouldn’t complain. “I have a lot to be thankful for.” His words are the breath in his lungs.

“But you want more?” Tony’s words aren’t accusatory but soft and seeking. 

“I want to be able to create,” Steve agrees. “I’m classically trained. For a bit I drew for a comic company – Timely. But they went out of business. That was right after I got out of the army. It really wasn’t what I wanted to do. I wanted to be.” He stops. There he goes again, being ungrateful. He puts a hand up to his forehead, hiding his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so ungrateful. I have a job in art with you.”

Tony takes his hand, holding it. “But you want to be an artist, not just commission other artists to have art hung in the Met. I get that. You don’t have to apologize for aspirations. Truth is, where would I be if I didn’t have a multi-billion dollar company? I would be less. That’s for sure. A lot of what I’m doing now is like SpaceX. It’s experimental and very, very not profitable.”

“Well, we all gotta eat.”

Tony brings Steve’s hand up to his lips, kisses his knuckles, and then says, “Love that Brooklyn accent.”

The burst of pleasure he gets from those words should be labeled insane but Steve cannot hold back the smile. How can he believe he’s this lucky? “I’, gonna owe Nat – well, more than I can ever afford.”

Tony tilts his head. “Why?”

He puts his glass down, unhappy to break their contact but he wants to concentrate on Tony. “Well, Nat’s the one that got me that first interview.”

“Or so she thinks,” Tony says. “Nat’s great at security, but the fact of the matter is, I told you I’ve been watching you for ages.”

“Which is weird in and of itself you know. Kind of stalkery,” Steve teases. “Because I’m nothing but a kid from Brooklyn. I’m not like some of these artists we’ve been interviewing. Some of them have awards and honors and distinctions. I don’t have any of that.”

“Well, we can change that.” Tony leans closer. Somewhere along the way he must have put down his wine glass because both of his hands clasp Steve’s. “Why haven’t you done a piece or two for me?”

The answer that pops into his head – not enough time- he immediately discounts. “Lack of motivation?” That’s half true at least. 

“How about this,” Tony whispers. His breath warms Steve as he speaks. “How about you take a few hours each day and do your thing. Do your art thing.”

“I don’t think.” He’s not even sure what he planned to say because Tony’s close, closer and Steve wants to fall into it. 

“Don’t think, just do,” Tony murmurs as he pushes forward and with only a slight hesitation takes the advantage and presses his lips against Steve’s mouth. At first it is just a sensation of touch, of lips, wet and pressing. The weight of desire against the teeth of fear. His heart ramps up and he falls against the tight rope, high in the clouds. It is tenuous and thrilling to be on the rope, balancing between the exhilaration and exploration of need against the pure terrifying knowledge of surrendering. 

Even as the thrill twists around and turns into something more akin to yearning, Steve shivers as the panic wells up. He’s never had this before, not like this. His mind batters him with his own inadequacies. And he falters. Tony pursues, not seeing the quaking of Steve’s body as anything other than a true desire. It should be, but Steve doesn’t deserve this and he presses his hands against Tony’s chest to push him away. 

Tony nuzzles against Steve’s neck for a moment before pulling away. “Too fast. Is that too fast? Pepper says I have to stop being such a jerk.”

“No, no, it’s-.” And that’s when it happens. His chest locks up, causing his throat to spasm and he’s in the middle of asthma attack for the ages. At first, Tony doesn’t recognize it since Steve’s never had one before in front of him. Normally, Steve has his asthma pretty well controlled. Not this time, not now. 

The wheezing – high pitched and strained – deafens him to all other sounds. His eyes start to tear even as Tony grasps his shoulders. Steve shoves him away as he searches for his inhaler. It’s not in his pockets; it’s not anywhere. He forgot it. The tailspin of anxiety tightens his chest further and tries to gulp up whatever air he can.

“Jesus, Steve, what’s happening? What’s happening?” Tony says as he squeezes Steve’s arms. Steve mouths the words but he can’t get them out. The only sounds are his wheezing. Hysteria scars Tony’s expression and he grips Steve. “What can I do? What can I do?” 

The room pixelates and pulses at the same time. He paws at the air and Tony catches his hand. He manages to mime an inhaler before he’s collapsing onto the couch, thinking that he’s failing Ian. He’s scaring Tony. “What? What? Damn, you’re lips are turning blue. Shit.” 

Steve lifts his hand again, but his arm is so heavy. It feels like he’s lifting logs. His arms flop about and his breath whistles against his ever closing bronchi. The darkness funnels in and he does not want that – he’ll end up in the hospital. He manages a _as—ma_ through his gasps.

“Shit, asthma, yeah, yeah.” Tony feels up Steve’s pants’ pockets and discerns that the inhaler is not there. He rushes to pick up his phone and curses into it as he waits. Steve hopes he’s not calling the ambulance. “Yes, thank god you answered. Steve’s having an asthma attack. No inhaler. Yeah? Okay. What?” Tony waits, nods, and then says, “Okay. Just get here.”

Tony kneels at the side of the couch near Steve and tucks pillows behind him. “Take long easy breathes. Come on, do it for me.” Tony places a hand on Steve’s chest and draws in his own breath. “Breathe with me. Slowly. Come on, sweetheart. You can do it.”

His hand is heavy on Steve’s chest, but the weight somehow feels good like a weighted blanket. Tony sidles onto the couch with Steve, speaking lowly to him, Even as he does, Tony shifts Steve around so that his back is pressed up against Tony’s chest. “Breath in and out. Come on, in and out. Slow it down.”

Steve concentrates on Tony’s words, listening to them – their rhythm and their cadence. It lulls him until he rests his head against Tony’s shoulder and his lungs ease the relentless hold on him. It feels like an enormous rage beast clamps down on his lungs and wants to pulverize them. But with Tony sitting behind him, lending him heat and support, the vice grip on his airways loosens. He doesn’t know when it happens because he loses time, but the inhaler is placed in his mouth and he’s told to breathe it in.

After two puffs he feels a blanket snuggled around his shoulders and then he’s gently laid against the pillows again. He hears Tony.

“You can leave. I can take care of him. He’ll stay here with me.”

“Are you sure? I can cart his ass back down. He’s weighs nothing.” That’s Bucky, both being gallant and an ass – as usual. 

Steve wants to refuse, wants to climb to his feet and show everyone that he can do this all day and not get knocked down. But then Tony intervenes.

“I can do it. Let him have the night off. If it’s okay. It will do him some good,” Tony says and he puts a blanket on Steve. “See he’s already sleepy.”

“Not a baby,” Steve says and he should get to his feet. 

“He’s scrappy, that’s for sure.”

Steve glowers at him but doesn’t move. There’s an inertia in being cared for that holds him in place. As a child he felt comforted by his mother, then as a teenager the guilt overcame him when his mother needed to tend him. As a young adult he fought against it, always battling Bucky when he needed to be saving his energy to heal. Now, as Tony ushers Bucky toward the elevator, Steve stays in a near stupor until he returns.

“Hey, you want to go lay down?” Tony says and points over his shoulder. “You can rest in the bedroom, and I’ll bring in some tea. Bucky said that might help?”

“Yeah,” Steve says and his voice sounds like he’s been screaming at a concert all day. He coughs and almost brings on the attack again. Swallowing, he adds, “I just have to rest then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“No can do. You’re in my hair. My beautiful hair and I don’t want you to cause me to pull it out.” Tony smooths a hand through his hair, posing. “I have a little fetish about my hair.”

_So do I_ Steve thinks but doesn’t voice it though he feels his cheeks flame with heat.

“Oh, I see I have my hidden weapon.” Tony smiles but then drops back to serious. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Steve waves him off, though his arms still feel leaden. “That was nothing. When it’s really serious I end up in the hospital.”

“What the fuck?” Tony says and some of the color drains out of his face. Well, that’s nice. How will he ever want to be with Steve? “And here I thought we could -.”

Steve bolts upright. His vision oscillates but then steadies. “You are not going to drop out of our date, are you? Please, Tony.” He hates the sound of himself pleading. He abruptly stops and shakes his head. “Forget it.” Pushing the blanket aside, Steve stands. He’s still winded and it takes a few seconds for him to let the room materialize again after everything goes dark. He blinks. “I’ll go.”

Tony grabs him. “No, you’ll stay. And no, I am not canceling our date. I just want to make sure you’re okay. I’m not a dick, you know.”

Steve stands with his back to Tony. He’s a little lightheaded and hopes to hell he’s not swaying because the room surely looks like it wants to do a good loop de loop. “Well, I’m not exactly the kind of guy most people want to date.” He gulps down the rest – he’s the kind of guy people step on.

Tony sighs. “Why do you say that?”

“Well,” Steve says and bows his head. “Well, I saw, everyone saw that you dated a Prince. That Prince from Norway. Prince Thor. I mean have you seen him.” He stops and chuckles. “Of course, you’ve seen him.” He covers his face with his hand. “God, I’ll just go.” Before he humiliates himself any further.

“Please don’t,” Tony says as Steve steps away. “I’m a pretty solitary guy now. In my youth I played around, called myself the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist. I was the guy who wouldn’t see you, I admit that.” He heaves in a breath and then starts again. “I was the guy who would walk right past beautiful art and snickered at the women and men falling at my feet.” He crosses the short distance to Steve. “But I learned something. Well, you do when you nearly die. I caused it. The crash that nearly killed me. I had no one else to blame. And then things changed for me. I changed.”

Steve clenches his jaw. He doesn’t want to say Tony just dated Thor last year. 

As if he reads Steve’s mind, Tony launches into an explanation. “Thor and I, we go way back. We’re friends, most of the time when he’s not trying to choke me to death. He was going through a hard time. His brother, well his foster brother, went a little nutso and Thor needed me. Me, of all people. Can you believe it?”

Steve peers over his shoulder. Tony’s only a breath away. 

“We hung out. The tabloids made it a big deal. Maybe we dated, maybe we didn’t. It doesn’t matter. Not right now. I’m here with you. I want to be with you. I can’t do this if you aren’t going to believe me, though. I have enough people in the media making shit up about me and not believing me and my motives to deal with. Now if you want to walk out that door, that’s fine. You can, and you can still work for me, still live here, because you’re the best damned Art Curator around. So you stay. I’ll give you room. I’ll move to my Malibu house or my house upstate. If you decide to leave, then fine. It’s over. I can’t fight that you won’t believe me when I say I’m interested and I’m attracted to you.”

The words shatter Steve in degrees, like a bag of glass marbles dropped down the stairs, breaking and splintering. Little worlds exploding into shards. His lungs ache, his heart races, but all he can think of is how much he’s hurt this man. “I’m sorry. I just-.”

Tony’s hands are on his shoulders, secure and safe, a weight he could welcome for many years to come. “Steve, there’s nothing to apologize about.”

“I’m not used to-.” He stops. The shame wells up, overflowing. He feels the heat of it burn his cheeks. 

“How about you rest? We can watch a little television, if you want?” Tony says. He’s not the guy in the tabloids, he’s not even close. There’s something vulnerable and isolated about him. 

“Okay, I’m tired.” Steve says and moves to go back to the couch. “I might fall asleep.”

“Then I have a better idea,” Tony says and he grins. 

Tony’s better idea turns out to be going to bed, or rather going to Tony’s bedroom and snuggling in bed while watching television. Tony escorts Steve into the bedroom, toes off his shoes, and then takes off shirt, and pants, he puts on sweats and a t-shirt. Tony gives Steve a muscle shirt (which is just ridiculous for Steve), and then he hurries away to make tea and retrieve the popcorn from the living room. When Tony leaves, Steve stands there with the A-shirt in his grasp and stares at it. If he’s going to do this he needs to accept that Tony is eventually going to see him naked. What difference does it make if he sees Steve tonight or tomorrow?

Steve inhales with aching lungs and then goes to the en suite bathroom. He shrugs off his clothes, hanging the pants and shirt on the hooks, but leaves his boxers on. He puts on the muscle shirt that Tony gave him and frowns at himself in the mirror. Not only is it ridiculous for him to wear an article of clothing with the word muscle in the name, but the shirt is too big. He grabs his button down and throws it back on before he washes his face and then rinses his mouth.

When he re-appears in the bedroom, Tony’s standing there with tray of tea and the popcorn. It’s a little more preposterous than Steve with his stupid button down still on and in his boxer shorts. Steve can’t help but laugh at the absurdity.

“Popcorn and tea?” Tony says and then his smile drops. “What’s with the shirt?” He slides the tray onto the nightstand next to the bed.

“I just- I was cold?” Steve says. His face burns and he looks everywhere but at Tony.

“Maybe you should just get in the bed?” Tony says. “Nice and warm in there. Be snug as a bug.” He cringes and then drops his shoulders. “Listen, Steve, I’m not a care taker. I never was. I need you to help me out here. Are you okay? Do you need to go back downstairs? Do you even want to be with me?”

It’s too much. Asking someone to bear his burden is just too much. “I’m sorry. I -.”

“No, no, you don’t get to say you’re sorry again. What did you do? Why are you saying sorry every five minutes?” Tony shakes his head. “You don’t trust me. You don’t trust my word. That I’m not lying to you when I say I’m attracted to you. Do you believe everything you read, Rogers?”

The attack is swift and pierces a hole in Steve’s wall he constructed years ago to ward off any pain of commitment or relationship. “Read?”

“Obviously what I say about the media holds no water for you.” Steve needs to get this under control because it’s clear it’s unraveling before Steve’s eyes. Tony paces back and forth and the anger pulses off of him in waves. “You know not all of us were born saints.” Steve manages a small _what?_ As Tony continues, “I know I’m not perfect, but I am nothing like the man in the tabloids. I worked damned hard over the last couple of years to restore my reputation, to follow the rules even though they’re damned stupid sometimes. And you can’t believe me that I want you? What the hell were you planning tomorrow? To put a bag over my head so I didn’t see you?”

It hits Steve like a mace, the barbs spike into his courage and try to shred it. But Steve’s mother taught him, Steve’s mother built him. She told him to always stand up. Always. “I don’t know if you realize it, Tony, but not all of us were born with silver spoons in our mouths.” Even as Tony tries to respond, Steve barrels ahead. “Not only was I born poor, but I was also born sick. It didn’t go away. There was no special serum or ray guns to make me some superhero. This is what I am. This is all I am. You call yourself damaged goods. Have you looked at me?” Steve tears off the button down. The shirt Tony gave him is too big, hangs on his bony frame. “And yes what I hoped to happen tomorrow terrifies me, but I take heart in what my mother said; she always told me not to be ashamed of myself, or of my body. It’s been hard to live up to that, damned hard. But the one person in this world that gave me the courage to try, the one person, has been you. You, Tony. ”

The silence falls and it feels like it has a pulse, thick and heavy between them. 

Finally, Tony says, “But you’re still ashamed.”

It hurts but it is the truth. “Even I have my doubts, my fears once in a while.” He pulls off the muscle shirt off and picks up his button down and then doubles back to get his pants. “I’m not a perfect person, Tony, but I always strive to be a good man. I make mistakes. I already told you I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I can’t get Thor out of my head and how beautiful he was. I’m sorry that I can’t get you to believe this isn’t all about you. I’m sorry I couldn’t live up to my mother’s hopes. I’m sorry – do you want me to write a letter?” When Tony doesn’t answer, Steve pulls on his pants, and dons his shirt, not bothering to button it. “Where’s my inhaler? I might need it again.” He’s not playing it for sympathy because he honest to god feels like his lungs might burst and he might topple over right there.

Tony grabs it from the tray and hands it to Steve. “You know, I should kick your ass out of my house. I fucking told you I would move across the country if that’s what you wanted. What else are you looking for? I can’t change my past. And I won’t walk around with an albatross around my neck because I lived a life you don’t approve.”

“And I won’t stand here and be berated because I have some insecurities.” He takes the inhaler. “I never disapproved of your past, Tony. I just don’t think I can live up to it. Or to who you think I am.” 

It might just be the hardest thing he’s ever done; his heart hammers in his chest hard enough he can hear it in his ears and his lungs constrict. As he steps through the threshold of the bedroom, Steve says, “It’s funny, you know. Both of us have been so influenced by our mothers.” He peers over his shoulder at Tony. “Such a strange thing to tear us apart.” He swallows down the pain, the sorrow, the sense of loss that’s overcoming him. “We’ll leave in the morning. I’ll send in my resignation on Monday.”

Before Steve gets two meters, Tony says, “You don’t get to do that.” He’s followed Steve and stands only a few steps away. “You don’t get to make that decision that we’re through.”

“I think I do.”

“Don’t,” Tony says. “Don’t do this. You’re being such an obstinate jerk.”

“And you are being-.” Steve stops. It’s hard to put into words. “Unrealistic. You think I’m something I’m not. I can’t just be brave and understanding and perfect all the time.”

“You sure seem like it,” Tony says and his voice is not unkind. “I see you with Ian. I hear you on the phone with the broken hearted artists when we tell them they won’t be selected. I hear you talk to your buddy, Bucky. You’re there for everyone. You took a little boy into your care when you didn’t have to. How can I not think you’re perfect?”

“But I’m not and that’s too much to live up to,” Steve says.

“Right back at you. I am not here to live up to my past. I can only look to the future,” Tony says. “You know, Steve, you’re perfect.” He waves at Steve, up and down. “To me. Maybe not to you, but to me.”

Steve bows his head. 

“Don’t leave. At least don’t leave the company. You’re a phenomenal curator, and I believe I want to be the one who is credited with discovering you as an artist. I’m that conceited.”

Steve looks up at Tony. “Maybe we can start over again.”

“Yeah.” Tony reaches out but Steve doesn’t take his hand.

“Let’s start tomorrow, I think I’m going to go to bed.” Steve smiles. He crosses the short distance between them, kisses Tony on the cheek and says, “Good night.”

Tony only smiles.

On the ride down to his floor, Steve’s hand quakes as he lifts the inhaler to his mouth and takes two more puffs. He shouldn’t but he doesn’t care. His heart races and he knows he’s in for a crappy night’s sleep. When he arrives at his floor and walks into the living room, Bucky and Nat both sit up from the couch. Ian’s between them, watching Wall-E one of his favorite Pixar movies. 

“Thought you were stayi-.” Bucky frowns. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I’m going to bed.”

Ian munches on the bowl of popcorn and offers some to Steve. “Wan some?”

Steve waves him off but leans down to kiss his head. “Daddy’s tired.” He leaves the room and goes to his bedroom, closing the door and hoping that Bucky knows him well enough not to follow him. He drops down on the bed and stares at the ceiling when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

“Great.” He digs it out of his pocket. Sam. “Hello?”

“Bad night?”

“God, Bucky needs to fuck off.” 

Sam whistles “Must have been a bad one.”

“I literally just got back,” Steve says and then swears. “Bucky needs to mind his own business.”

“He’s worried.”

Steve puts his hand over his eyes. “He shouldn’t be. I can fuck things up all on my own.” He just wants to forget that tonight ever happened. Will tomorrow happen? Can he even deal with tomorrow? Should he? “Sam?”

“Yeah, Steve?”

“I screwed up. You know, how I always screw up. Thinking no one wants to be with me. Waited so long for the right partner. I think that I screwed up.”

“Steve,” Sam starts. “You’re the kind of guy who wants to save the world. Look at how you went into that house with Zola and Ian. Everyone knows you put everything and everyone else above you. Now, I am not surprised that you are doing this to yourself. Of course you don’t think he’ll want you, because my dear Captain, you don’t think you’re worth it. You sabotage yourself.”

“That’s not true.”

“Sure it is,” Sam says. “So what about tomorrow?”

Steve rubs his fingers into his closed eyes until he sees flashes of white lights. “I don’t know. I think it’s still on, but I don’t know if I should go through with it.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Why would I?” Steve says. “Tony – look at him and then look at me?”

“Listen, you are not the same guy at the fair offering the girl Bucky set you up with peanuts. That isn’t you, not anymore. You’ve been to war, you’ve saved people. You’re a dad.”

“Yeah but that doesn’t mean I’m not scrawny and sickly looking. I had an asthma attack and forgot my inhaler,” Steve says and then he groans. “How romantic is that?”

“You need to get your head out of your ass. You need to start living. Otherwise you might as well go freeze yourself in some ice for a hundred years.”

“I’d only do seventy. Tops,” Steve says and the tension ebbs away. “You think I can do this?”

“Tony Stark can have anyone in the world that he wants. Anyone. And he picked you. Have a little confidence that he’s telling the truth.”

“God, he said something like that. That he’s attracted to me, and that I won’t believe him. Now I feel like a total creep.” He’s bones feel like gelatin. He’s such a fool.

“Don’t. Just be his guy. Every guy wants someone to be theirs. Just be that for him.” Sam pauses and then adds, “Steve, you were a Captain in the Army, you’re a war hero. You can do this.”

“Okay, thanks, Sam,” Steve replies.

“No problem. Get some rest.”

“Oh and Sam?” Steve says before he disconnects. “When you call Bucky to report to him, tell him thanks, too. But also tell him to fuck off.”

Sam snickers and then says good night. Steve drops his hand and stares up at the ceiling as the flickering lights from the cityscape outside the window play with the shadows. He lies there a long time, wishing, whispering into the dreams of his youth until he finally falls asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

PART IV  
Saturday both drags and runs on speed as Steve tries to figure out what to do about Tony while racing around the city to take Ian to his little league soccer game as well as the library. By the time he finishes everything, Ian is cranky and wants ice cream. He drapes himself over Steve’s lap in the subway and moans about his hungry belly. Steve only rubs his tummy and tells him to sit up straight. Ian cries in response. It’s ugly and all of the other riders glare at him. Finally they trudge back to the Tower and Steve’s arms are noodles as he carries Ian the last three blocks. 

They pass through the lobby, and Steve glances at the receptionist desk. The Roz lady is not there. It seems like a million years ago that she harped at Steve and he evaded the guards. Steve slips Ian to the floor so the little boy can walk the rest of the way. When they get in the elevator, Ian clasps Steve’s hand and gazes up at him.

“Dadda?”

“Yes, big guy?”

“When Jett comes back does that mean we’re a family, together?” Ian clutches a book about tractors he checked out of the library. His long curls bob as he cranks his neck to look up to Steve.

“We’ll see.” Steve can’t promise anything about Jett. She’s nearly seventeen now; she might not like the idea of living with Steve and Ian. “Let’s just do it one step at a time.”

“Does it mean that my real daddy is coming back?” Ian asks. Fear colors his expression.

“You don’t have to worry about him anymore. I’m going to take care of you,” Steve says as the elevator arrives. Bucky is standing in the vestibule. He doesn’t have his prosthetic arm on because it started to bother him so he needs to go back for more measurements. 

“Finally. You know you have to be across town in like an hour, right?” 

Steve nods as Ian flops onto the couch. The little boy rolls around and says, “I’m sausted. I need candy.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Steve says and heads toward his bedroom. With a quick shower and a shave, Steve finishes preparing to leave without much thought. If he keeps the actual goal of the date outside his thought processes, he can still function. He packs an overnight bag and places it in the vestibule. Going to the kitchen, he packs his supplies, says goodbye to Ian, and as he goes to the elevator, Bucky stops him.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Have a good time, okay?” The sincerity in Bucky’s voice both surprises and warms Steve. Considering how negative Bucky had been about Tony at first, Steve takes it as a quiet approval on Bucky’s part.

Steve half smiles. “I’ll try.”

“Steve, you deserve this. Relax. The rest of us can deal with things without you for a little bit.” Just as that moment, Ian falls off the stool near the kitchen counter and starts to cry. Steve doubles back but Bucky shakes his head. “Go.” The fact that Bucky offers him a glimmer of support shores up Steve’s courage.

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He picks up the overnight bag and his shopping bag of food. With a straightening of his shoulders, he’s on his way. He takes their old van across town to their Brooklyn apartment. The traffic isn’t as bad as he thought it would be and he arrives in ample time to put things together. 

As he lifts his overnight bag and his shopping bag filled with groceries up the last flight of stairs, Roc steps out of his apartment and grimaces at Steve. “Thought you left us for your big time job with Stark.”

“Hi, Roc. How’re you doing?” Steve says, ignoring the slight about his job.

Roc leans against the door with his ankles crossed and a smirk on his face. “So you back? They kick you out?”

“No, not yet.” He slips the key in the lock as Roc snorts at him. 

“Well good luck, Rogers. You’re gonna need it in that circle.” Roc goes back inside before Steve can retort.

The door opens and Steve still has to kick it in order to get the keys out of the lock. He drags the groceries in and the luggage. Stowing his overnight bag in the one closet in the bedroom, Steve manages to get the groceries and then put away all the food. He starts the dinner immediately. He’s not a master chef by any means, but he can bake a mean lasagna and make decent meatballs. He gets the wine chilled and then sets about making the lasagna. Bucky’s mother taught them how to do it, telling them that boys need to take care of themselves. It’s not a woman’s job to do the meals. Men should be able to do it as well. 

As the pasta boil, he chops cucumbers, tomatoes, black olives, and onions for the salad. Once he puts together the salad he puts it in the refrigerator and then works on constructing the lasagna. He manages only to slightly burn his fingers as he finishes. The sauce isn’t homemade, which is a shame, but he didn’t have enough time for that. Once he puts it in the oven, he goes to clean up again. He wants everything perfect, yet at the same time he wonders if Tony will even show up. They left things so ambiguous last night. On a lark, he pulls out his phone and sends a text message.

_Looking forward to tonight_

He leaves the phone in the bedroom and goes to the bath to clean up. He doesn’t need a shave again, but he’s kind of sweaty from the traffic and lugging all of the bags up the stairs so he decides a shower is in order. He cleans up and then quickly dries. He puts on fresh clothes and then tidies up the bathroom, making sure the towels are fresh and everything is clean. It isn’t like the Tower. It isn’t luxurious. It’s functional, but as long as it’s clean it doesn’t matter what it looks like. At least that’s he tells himself. 

When he checks his phone, there aren’t any messages and he tries not to let his heart sink. He should have checked with Tony this morning. Gone up and apologized again. This whole thing is his fault. Steve’s always had courage, the courage to stand up to bullies, to help those in need but his mother said once that Steve lacked one thing.

“You lack self-preservation,” she’d said one time when he’d come home with a black eye, a bloody nose, and a cut scalp. 

“Just another bully, Mama,” Steve replied. “Couldn’t see my friend Arnie get hurt like that again.”

“One day, it isn’t going to be about bullies, Steven,” his mother said as she wiped away the blood. “One day it’s going to be about taking care of yourself. You’re not going to do it and you’re going to get hurt because of it.”

“Don’t worry about me, Mama. I’m stronger than I look.” She wrapped him in her arms then and confirmed it, nodding as she rocked him. He couldn’t have been more than eight years old. 

Now, he finally understands what she meant. How stupid could he have been? The oven buzzer jolts him out of his self-pity. The lasagna looks perfect as he pulls it out of the oven and sets it to cool. The meatballs are done and he set the sauce to simmer. What’s he going to do with all of this dinner if Tony doesn’t show up? He turns around and looks at the apartment. In one corner he’s piled up the rest of Ian’s toys that he still needs to transport over to the Tower, but it looks like it’s a good thing he never did. He glances around to take stock of his decorations. He has lines of white lights strung up and around the windows and glittering over the ceiling. Sam’s mother’s tablecloth and her good China on his table. Two small vases with different colored marbles and a candle embedded in each sits on the table. Everything ready to go. Except he got on his high horse yesterday and couldn’t just admit that it terrifies him – this – trying to be the guy someone wants. He’s used to the role of being the guy in the corner at dances and bars. He knows how to wear that coat, but this – this is like donning the uniform of a superhero. He doesn’t know how to be someone’s plus one, someone’s center, someone’s soul. 

He might as well go and get Roc and his roommate and have them take all the food. Sighing with resignation of his failure, Steve opens up the door to find Tony standing there.

“Oh.”

Tony smiles – or tries to – and then shoves a fist full of flowers that look like Tony’s plucked half of their petals off into Steve’s chest. Petals decorate the landing floor.

“I came.”

“I see that.”

“The flowers, they had a problem.”

“I see that, too.” Steve steps aside. “You want to come in?”

“Well, sure. I don’t want to have the same problem the flowers had. Something’s wrong with your hallway.”

“Yeah those frequent tornadoes are a hazard,” Steve says and shuts the door just as Roc peers out at him from his apartment across the hall. 

When Steve turns around with denuded flowers in hand, Tony has escaped to the corner of the room where Steve used to house his old easel. He’s wearing a suit jacket with jeans. His hair is perfection and his beard and mustache are nicely trimmed. Under the suit jacket it looks like he’s wearing a t-shirt of the Grateful Dead. 

“So, you like the Dead?” Steve says as he busies himself with putting what’s left of the flowers into a vase. It’s not really a vase, just one of the old mason jars they once used as glasses. 

“Dead? No, I’m not a fan of dead people in general,” Tony says and looks at the wall next to the cubby where Steve kept his paints. 

“No. I mean the Grateful Dead? Your shirt? I don’t know much about them. Not into a lot of that kind of music. I’m more into – you know, 40s big bands and stuff.”

“Big bands?” Tony says and it piques his interest enough that he inches out of his little hiding space. 

“Yeah.” Steve plays with the flowers in the glass, trying to get them into a nice agreement, but it’s more like being on the Addams Family as far as bouquets are concerned. “My mom’s dad really loved them and he had a collection. We used to listen to them a lot when I was a kid.”

“I bet you didn’t have a television and had to sit there and make up stories in your head.”

“Something like that,” Steve replies and doesn’t glance up because he doesn’t want to see the look of distress on Tony’s face. “Do you want some wine?”

“Sure,” Tony replies but keeps it at that, not venturing further and now Steve has to do something about this unless he wants the entire night to be like the flowers stems in the mason jar.

“If you don’t mind, it’s in the fridge,” Steve says and puts the garlic bread in the oven to toast and warm the cheese. 

Tony seems grateful for something to do. He crosses the room and opens the fridge. With a slight hmm, he pulls out the wine and works the corkscrew Steve placed on the countertop into the bottle. 

“I hope you like Italian. I didn’t think you wanted corned beef and cabbage for our night out,” Steve says. “That was my mom’s specialty. Don’t tell her but I really hated it.” Tony chuckles and Steve pushes out a breath. The tiny response fuels Steve’s courage to confront the problem. “So I wanted to tell you, Tony, I’m not good at this. At all. I’m in unknown territory. Completely unknown. I’m not used to being someone’s plus one.”

“And I have all the experience,” Tony’s words are bitter in the air.

“Yes, you do,” Steve says but he tries to maintain a softer tone to his voice. “And I’m not saying that’s bad. In fact it could help me out immensely, considering. But the fact is I don’t see your experience as a bad thing for you. Just for me.”

“Just for you, because you don’t want to be with someone-.”

“That’s not what I-.” Steve stops and then puts down the grater and the wedge of parmesan cheese. “What I mean to say is, I’m running up a hill here with no traction. I have no experience, Tony. None. Do you get what that means? I’m a man in my late twenties and I’ve never.” Every part of him wants to explode with shame. 

Tony puts the corkscrew down. He’s standing not a foot away from Steve. He’s so close Steve can smell the light fragrance of his shampoo. Tony reaches and touches Steve’s jaw, then slips his hand to cup his cheek. “You don’t have to apologize for being scared, or worried, but don’t even think about being ashamed.”

Steve swallows down the yearning, the thrill as it mixes with fear. “I just wanted you to understand.” He doesn’t say _so you won’t be disappointed_ , though the words scream in his brain.

“Right now, I want you to understand something else.” Tony wraps his other hand around Steve. As he kisses Steve, Tony presses his hand at the small of Steve’s back causing him to arch into the kiss. The kiss overwhelms but the touch – the touch sets everything on fire, sets everything right. Steve dissolves in degrees into the warmth that is Tony. He never knew anything could feel like this; it sizzles and excites yet at the same time sooths him into a kind of miasma. When Tony pulls away, Steve must look a little out of it.

“Punch-drunk. That’s good,” Tony says. “You want to keep the food warm?” He nibbles a bit on Steve’s shoulder and at his neck. “Just a little bit?”

“Yeah, I think – yeah.” He admits he’s scared. There’s no denying it. He’s wanted someone to want him, to lust after him, for ages. He never thought he would get it. Never. Now, Tony’s inviting him in, asking him to set aside his carefully laid out plans that were designed to ease him into what would happen. Tony asks him to jump - not feet first – but to dive right in without checking the water depth. It doesn’t matter, Steve trusts Tony. Steve quickly prepares the dinner to be delayed while Tony hovers close to him, touching every now and again, almost to reassure.

When he done, Tony points to the only door that would lead into a bedroom. “Bedroom?” 

“Yeah.” Steve says and lets Tony tow him into the room. 

The bed is small, only a double. But it will do. Once it was Steve’s alone, and then it was Bucky’s for a while, and finally Ian’s. Now it will be something different, something elusive and exciting. Yet that same feeling that conquered Steve last night comes over him again, more powerful, more foreboding. He tenses and Tony must feel it like a vibration in the air. Instead of questioning it like last night, Tony faces Steve and gently reels him to his side. They’re standing nearly touching and Tony whispers, “I’m going to undress you now. You don’t have to worry. I’m going to touch everywhere you want to be touched and nowhere you don’t.”

“Okay,” Steve breathes out. He never really thought of himself as a timid guy, the opposite in fact. Bucky always said Steve was like spit and vinegar. For the first time in his life, he welcomes help. 

Tony slowly unbuttons Steve’s shirt, kissing lightly at his neck and then down toward his chest. The kisses both tantalize and tickle. The tension in his muscles inverts and transforms into a want, a yearning. Tony slides his hands into the sleeves of Steve’s shirt and pushes it off. Steve tugs it away leaving on his undershirt. Tony lines his finger along the collar and then says, “Do you want to take off my jacket and shirt?”

Steve nods and then reaches up; his hands quake. He tries not to be embarrassed and Tony leans over to kiss him, stilling his hands as he works open Steve’s mouth to allow his tongue in. The flush of acceptance, of knowing that Tony hasn’t lied to him. There’s genuine hunger as Tony takes Steve’s mouth. Steve follows his lead, learning and piecing together how to give and take all at once. Since he was a child, Steve could always fit together pieces and parts in order to formulate a strong strategy. It’s not much different than that. Without much thought, Steve’s hands find Tony’s jacket’s buttons again and start their work as they both continue to bite and nibble with their mouths. 

Tony breaks away, breathless and hot. He searches Steve’s features and says, “Fast learner.”

“Eidetic memory helps.”

“I’m not going to ask what you’re remembering- well not yet,” Tony says and sniggers a little as he tugs off Steve’s undershirt and goes for his jeans. 

“Off with the jacket and shirt,” Steve says, finally finding his voice and more of his street courage.

“Anything you say, Captain,” Tony says and peels off his jacket and tugs off his t-shirt the rest of the way. He toes off his shoes. Steve does the same. 

Tony grabs Steve’s jeans at the waist, and drags him over to the bed. “I like what you did with the apartment. Thought I’ve have to fight the stuffed animals for you.”

“Don’t make me think of little kids and stuffed animals right now,” Steve says because he might sink into all his subconscious fears and worries about his son. He doesn’t want to go down that spiral; he’s working hard enough to stay ahead of his body image anxieties.

Tony drops down onto the bed with Steve following, falling directly into Tony’s arms. “Now let me show you a little appreciation for everything you did tonight.”

“Haven’t done so much, yet,” Steve murmurs.

“Oh, you will,” Tony says with a grin. There’s something hidden there, something deliciously dark but not terrifying. It enhances the yearning in Steve, draws him out and lures him to act. Tony rolls them over on the bed, and then he sits up. His hands caress down Steve’s chest, his abdomen. In response, Steve shivers but doesn’t look away. The hunger, the want in Tony’s eyes, fills Steve with such pleasure and assurance. “Oh see,” Tony says. “Now you’re getting it.”

It makes all the difference in the world, the recognition, the understanding that this is shared. And suddenly, Steve trusts. Trusts the truth of what Tony has professed. Steve doesn’t only fall into Tony’s arms, doesn’t only release all the fears and apprehension he harbored, doesn’t only open himself for all of what Tony’s offering, but falls into the other realm. The elusive and ephemeral place. He tells himself that having sex isn’t the same thing as making love. That sex does not make love. And love does not always mean sex. These moments before him signify a change – a change in the way he looks at the world, a change in the way he feels about self.

Tony breaks away from licking and kissing along Steve’s body, enough to make Steve shudder in utter delight, to check in with him. “This okay? You like this?”

Steve bites his tongue, because there’s still a part of him that’s deeply worried, concerned. So he only nods in response.

“It’s okay not to like something.” Tony nibbles a little at Steve’s neck. He pulls away and gazes into Steve’s eyes. “Personally I hate when anyone kisses and licks my ears. It takes all the magic away to hear all that dog lapping.”

Steve smiles as laughter whispers close.

“Some things about having sex are just weird,” Tony murmurs and then kisses again until Steve wants so much more than he can possibly voice. “Want you to have the best experience.”

As Tony touches him, kisses him, caresses him, and tutors him in ways he never realized he wanted or needed, Steve’s definition of worth revises. 

When Tony asks _do you like this?_ or says to Steve _oh yes, do that more_ the heat and need rival one another in his gut. The moments from last night drop away, the fears and disabilities constructed in his mind start to lose their hold on him. He knows he shouldn’t pin his hopes and his life and how he views himself on others, but the look in Tony’s eyes – as if he’s imbibing the sun – as he drinks Steve down cannot _not_ change Steve. 

Tony shows him the way. His hands are a poem of desire, his mouth a symphony of pleasure. Steve melts into the grace of being loved, and of loving. He might be awkward and a little unsure, but Tony’s patience and pure excitement at getting to lead the way, assures Steve. 

Steve stops grasping for reasons why he’s not wanted someone. For so long he told himself he didn’t have time, or didn’t like anyone or he hadn’t met the right partner, yet. And that last, the last is right. Steve invites Tony in, and Tony teaches Steve. It’s mesmerizing, and terrifying in its simplicity. At first painful and frightening, but then exciting and transcendent. As he welcomes Tony in, and their bodies move together Steve cries out in need, and in pleasure. Sensations course through him like flame burning away his insecurities, and breaking open something, someone Steve never knew existed inside of him. He wants, he hungers, he craves and in the midst of their lovemaking Steve shows Tony, hot and needy, that he not only wants Tony but that he accept him as well. They thrust and crave and kiss and become not merely two people together, but two people entwined. And finally, Steve cannot deny as he lies in Tony’s arms, spent and filled, that something has changed in him.

It takes a while before they get up for dinner, especially since after they doze, Steve wakes up and says, “I want to do it again.” Tony laughs and obliges; this time Tony shows him other things. Tony allows and Steve accepts. It’s incredible and invigorating and potent. 

Later, Tony drunk on too much sex, his hair a mess and his body littered with bites, says, “You’re a little too good at this. Are you gonna feed me? Imma kinda hungry. It’s a rule you have to feed someone you debauched.”

“Is it now?” Steve chuckles and flops over in the bed. The whole place smells like Tony’s cologne with an under lying scent of sex. “But I think I could eat, too.” 

“Let’s shower first,” Tony says and wraps an arm around Steve’s waist as he tries to crawl out of bed. “Together.”

Steve snorts. “Really? I had a hard time bathing Ian in that bathroom. There’s not room for the two of us in the shower.”

Tony throws himself onto the bed, arm over his face. “Whatever will I do? I can’t get enough of you.”

“You are a poor poet,” Steve says and pulls on his boxers and pants. “I’ll get things warmed up and you shower. Then I’ll come back and take my turn.”

“You’re sure you’re done being wicked tonight?” 

Steve walks to the door of the bedroom and rolls his eyes. “I’m not even halfway there.”

Tony hoots and claps his hands. “You are the devil in the body of an angel, my dear.”

“Don’t say that. Go take a shower,” Steve says and goes to fix dinner. He hopes it’s not totaling trashed considering how long he’s let everything wait. It only takes a bit to get things warmed and the sauce bubbling on the stove top. He sets the table, making sure to use placemats because he doesn’t want to stain Sam’s mother’s tablecloth. 

When he hears the water shut off he slips back into the bedroom and waits for Tony to emerge from the bathroom. He does, naked as the day he was born and probably just as beautiful. Steve smiles. He supposes that’s not a true statement for himself because his mother said he was born with blue lips and blue legs. They had to get him breathing and two days later he came down with pneumonia – one of a dozen times in his life. 

Watching Tony walk into the room with a towel over his head as he dries his hair, Steve cannot believe how very lucky he is. “You’re happy?” Steve asks.

Tony pulls the towel down and his hair is a mass of curls over his head. “Immensely, my dear.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Steve says and goes to the bathroom, trying to ignore just how strongly he’s attracted to Tony. 

“Do what? Say how much I enjoy you, like you, want to be with you?” Tony frowns.

“No, I mean. You don’t have to say my dear and call me nice things like that,” Steve says and tugs off his pants. 

“Don’t you like it?” 

“I like it well enough,” Steve says and shrugs. “It’s just – you don’t have to treat me special or anything.”

Tony steps into the tiny bathroom, kisses Steve on the lips, the eyelids, and then the forehead. “Of course, I do.” He smiles. “Now shower, because I’m starved and I still have to ravage you tonight.”

Steve kisses Tony; it might be the first time he actually initiated it. But this feels different now. The comfort that Tony offered him, gave to him, has taken root in his bones, in his blood. It’s like a special serum that colors the world for Steve. When he parts from Tony, he says, “I’ll be quick about it.”

Tony grins as he pinches Steve’s ass. “You better.”

Showering after he strips, Steve lets the water hit him. There’s a new ache here and there, but it’s a good kind of feeling. With renewed energy, Steve cleans up and then hops out of the shower and dries. He towels his hair dry and then combs it, because lord knows he doesn’t have the head of hair like Tony. Finally, he gets out of the bath and enters the bedroom. Tony must be out in the living room so Steve quickly dresses and goes to join Tony.

Resting on the couch with his phone, Tony smiles. “You look delish, especially the love bite on your neck.”

Steve clamps his hand over his throat. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, everyone’s going to know what you were doing, yes.” There’s a twinkle in Tony’s eyes.

“Same back at you,” Steve replies and sets himself to finish up their meal. 

Tony races to the bathroom. “I didn’t notice any-.” He stops and then comes out of the bedroom. “You’re a vampire.”

“And I might need more tonight,” Steve says and he brings the lasagna to the table. 

“Well, I guess I will have to sacrifice myself to you, my beautiful handsome, daring self.” 

As Steve slices the lasagna, he says, “For a minute there, I thought you were talking about me.”

Tony sidles up behind Steve and kisses his neck. “I am, darling, I am.” 

Tony’s lips tickles, and Steve elbows him away. “Don’t. I’m going to drop the sauce and get Sam’s tablecloth all stained.”

“Sam is your secret boyfriend.” Tony stands next to him with a pout. 

“No, he’s a good friend, and don’t pout. Sit.” 

Tony does as directed and then surveys the strings of lights and the candles. “I’m glad you did this. This is nice. It’s nice to go somewhere and not have cameras in my face all the time.”

“Well, I’m glad. I was worried you’ll think it was all too cliché.” Steve puts the serving bowl with the sauce on a placemat on the table, brings the salad to the table, and then settles down into a chair next to Tony. 

“No, no. It’s perfect.” Tony digs into the lasagna and the meatballs. As he chews he points to the food and says, “You made this? This is great.”

“Not my recipe. It’s Bucky’s from his mom. And, unfortunately, I didn’t have time to make the sauce, but I doctored it up a little.” Steve starts to eat.

Tony considers him and then says, “Don’t do that. Don’t put it down. You do that all the time. When we’re talking about the artists you always say how good they are in comparison to you.”

“Not all the time. I always compare them to established artists,” Steve says.

“Yeah, you do that, but then you always then compare them to you,” Tony says and he adds, “’This artist has fine technique and seems to emulate the old Dutch masters. Excellent skill, way better than me’.” Tony stops and then cocks an eyebrow at Steve. “Did I get that right?”

“You’re exaggerating. I don’t do it with every artist.”

“Everyone you think we should make an offer for some of their work,” Tony says. “And I’ll tell you what. I won’t buy a single thing more until I buy some of your work.”

Steve shakes his head. “Most of my work was destroyed when I lost my studio and gallery.”

“Well, I said you can take a little time to start arting – is that a word? I propose that we take a breather on the acquisitions of new materials for a bit and you spend the time – you know, arting or whatever you call it. Yes, arting. I declare it a word.”

Steve bows his hand and scratches the back of his neck. “I’m not sure I could do that. I would always be a little worried about the work.”

“Well, you could check in a few times a day. How is Friday working out? Maybe we could have her step in – do a little bit of the research while you actually art,” Tony says.

“I don’t want special treatment.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think it’s right for the company-.” 

Tony shakes his head. “No, you don’t get to do that. This is my mother’s foundation. I run it with a handful of trusted employees. I treat all of my employees very well. They would celebrate you working on your art. They know about us, and they don’t have a problem. At least, think about it.”

“Okay, I will.” He eats his meal as Tony talks about his mother, sharing stories, and they both compare their fears and loves during childhood. Finally, Steve says, “I have cannoli for dessert so finish up.”

Tony digs into his salad. “I love cannoli. I think I might burst, this is so good.”

“I’m glad you like it. It’s better than making mac and cheese all the time with strawberry milk.”

Tony cringes. “That sounds disgusting.”

“It is. Take it from someone who has tried to hide how gross it is,” Steve says. “Ian thinks he’s a chef sometimes. He is not, let me assure you of that.”

As the dinner progresses, their conversation lowers. The fading light from outside dissipates until only the candles and the strings of lights illuminate the apartment. Tony’s eyes reflect the tiny lights all around them like fireflies aglow. Steve’s never had this before. It overwhelms and there’s moment when he thinks his lungs are tight in his chest. He’s so damned lucky. He wants to apologize again for last night, but Tony hushes him and then they kiss and touch. Leaving the dishes behind, they find their way back to the bedroom again. And then Tony is over him, touching him, kissing him, and Steve welcomes him, brings him into his body. 

In the evening light, Steve watches and lets the awe come over him. It’s easy to do. To just float with the thrill and the adoration Tony shows him. Yet, it’s too much – it coils and tightens inside of him until he’s crying out and Tony’s there – holding him and they’re together. Tony howls out his need, and they fall. Breathing and panting and shuddering through it.

It’s too much and Steve would stay wrapped around Tony forever if he could. Tony rolls to the side and they’re lying face to face, foreheads touching, arms and legs entangled.

“Don’t think I ever felt this way about anyone,” Tony whispers and gasps a little for air as if their activities have finally taken their toll. 

“I know I haven’t,” Steve murmurs.

Tony shifts a little and gets up on one elbow. “I realize we’ve only known one another for a short time, but -.” He stops and places a hand on his scarred chest. “I have to tell you. I think I’m falling in love with you, Steve Rogers.”

Steve can’t help but smile, he can’t stop the smile. “Well, that’s good, because I think I might be in love with you.”

Tony startles and it’s funny to think that he would be stunned that Steve would feel the same about him. There’s so much more for Steve to learn about Tony. Why he has such low self-esteem? His dedication to his mother, his exploration of artificial intelligence that just might save the world. There’s so much and more. “Why- wh-.” Tony stops and sits up. He turns around and has his back to Steve. He gags a few times.

“Tony?”

Tony climbs to his feet, but says nothing to Steve. He wobbles but manages to walk around the bed. As Tony passes him, Steve notices the paleness of his features, the sweat pouring down his face and chest. 

“Tony?” He doesn’t answer when Steve calls to him. Tony wavers on his feet. Steve sits up. “Tony? You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?” 

Staggering, Tony gets to the bathroom and promptly vomits all over the sink and floor. He gurgles and then goes down on his knees, hands to his chest.

“Tony, oh God, Tony?” Steve says and he’s at Tony’s side, holding him. 

Tony mouths words but nothing comes out and he clutches onto Steve’s arm with one hand and his other hand – white knuckled – holds his chest.

“Dear God! Are you having a heart attack?” Steve asks. “You stay here. Just stay here.” Tony falters on his knees and shakes his head. “Don’t. I need to get the phone. I have to call 9-1-1-.” 

He pries Tony’s hand off of his wrist and gets up, slips on the vomit, curses, and then rushes to the phone. He hits emergency call and almost immediately he gets the dispatcher. “I think my friend is having a heart attack. Can you get someone here?”

The dispatcher talks Steve through it. Gets him to get Tony on the bed, and sitting up with pillows around him. He manages to get boxers on Tony and some on himself. The stench of vomit permeates the air but he ignores it. He brings a wet washcloth over and wipes away the spittle on Tony’s face. He’s listing to the side, his eyes rolling back in his head. 

“Stay with me, Tony,” Steve says and then he hears the pounding on the door. “Stay here.” Steve jumps up and picks up a t-shirt – it’s Tony’s – as he runs to the door. Pulling it on over his head, he opens the door to two paramedics. “Back bedroom.” He points. 

The two young men hurry through the apartment, not stopping to take in the scene as Steve tries not to let his embarrassment get the best of him. Instead of worrying about his own insecurities, Steve focuses on Tony. The paramedics already have him on a gurney and are taking his vitals as Steve enters the room. One of the young men asks Steve to stand aside but also requests information.

“Can you tell me a little about what happened? He’s unresponsive and we can’t get any information from him.”

Steve combs a hand through his hair and says, “Stark, his name is Tony Stark.” The other paramedic adjusting an oxygen mask on Tony’s face glances up at Steve for a second but then looks back down to his patient. “We were, we were in bed. We just finished dinner. We were in bed and he jumped up and didn’t feel well. He was sweating, a lot. And vomited in the bathroom.” Steve indicates the mess. “We had tomato sauce for dinner so I’m sure that’s not blood.” 

The paramedic taking the information nods and then says, “Why don’t you get dressed while we finish up.”

“Finish up?”

“We have to prep him to take him to the hospital. He has all the classic signs of a heart attack,” the paramedic says. “Hurry. We can’t wait.”

Steve does as told, leaving Tony’s shirt on and going to the bathroom side stepping the mess to just quickly wash his hands and his legs where he got some of the vomit on him from slipping. He picks up his pants and socks from the floor and dons them. He tears the shoelaces open on his shoes, puts them on, and then picks up his jacket, keys, and phone as the paramedics start out of the apartment hauling Tony as they go. 

The paramedics tell him he can’t ride in the ambulance but direct him to follow. At least he has the van. “Okay.”

In a kind of fog, he heads to the van. He sees some of his neighbors mulling around the ambulance and someone asks if that’s the famous Tony Stark. Steve keeps his head down and gets around the ambulance to go to the van. Tony specifically said he didn’t want their relationship in the media’s eye. So Steve makes sure that no one spots him even though his heart hurts as Tony is taken away from him. 

A kind of numbness settles over him. It’s not like a cloud but a cloak that wraps him in its embrace. He accepts it. Maybe he’s in shock or maybe part of him is cruel and unfeeling. As he drives to the hospital his mind reels around but does not particularly concentrate on any one thing. It takes all of his willpower to not get into an accident and kill himself. When he arrives at the hospital and finally finds a parking spot. He takes his hands off the steering wheel and they tremble. He manages to get his phone out, but dialing is a fantasy. Luckily he has Bucky on speed dial.

“Hey, already you’re calling me. It can’t be going that bad.” The gaiety in Bucky’s voice slices through Steve.

“Yeah, it is.” Steve blinks several times as he curls against the steering wheel and peers down the block – the darkness of night lit only with the streetlamps and the occasional car. 

“Did he hurt you? Did that son of a bi-.”

“Stop,” Steve says and his anger rages over. “I’m not a child, Buck. I am not a fucking child. No, it wasn’t me. It wasn’t me at all. He had a heart attack. A fucking heart attack and I’m at the hospital and for once in our god damned lives can you be fucking serious.”

“Jesus, Steve, I’m sorry,” Bucky says and then exhales, audibly shaken. “Is he? Is he all right?”

Steve blinks too much and says, “I don’t know. I’m sitting outside the hospital and I have to go in and find out. I don’t want to call Pepper. I don’t want to tell her that Tony’s -.” 

“Okay, take a breath before you end up in the next bed over,” Bucky says. “I can call Potts. Do you have her number?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says and gives it to Bucky. 

“Okay, I’ll call her and then have her come over there. You send me all the info. Okay, text it to me.” Bucky whispers something and Steve assumes he’s talking to Nat or Jocasta. “I’m gonna come over, okay?”

“Yeah – no, no you don’t have to. I don’t even know if he’s alive.” Jesus. He closes his eyes and the tears burn his face. “This can’t happen to him, It can’t.”

“It has, Stevie, it has. Now, you know what your mom used to say,” Bucky says and then holds his breath.

“Yeah, stand up. Always stand up,” Steve says and then slumps back in the seat. His eyes blur and his mind whirs. “I’ll go in. Talk to you soon.”

“I’m coming over. You send me the information.”

“Okay,” Steve says and then murmurs a good bye before he cuts off the connection. He manages to text Bucky all of the information. He sent a note that says he loves Ian and then sits there in the van, unmoving. 

In those minutes he sees nothing, hears nothing. As a person with an eidetic memory, it’s hard not to take everything in – see all the mechanics of life cranking around him all day. But at this moment, nothing penetrates his fears, his guilt, his sorrow. 

Except his mother’s voice.

_Why, why don’t you stay down, Momma, why?_

_Because, and you listen close, Steven, you always stand up._

Inhaling and ignoring the tightness in his chest, Steve holds his breath and then releases it. He leaves the van and goes to the hospital. Each step a monumental stride up the side of a mountain, but he makes it there. Tony’s illness pelts him, but he makes it to the emergency reception and asks about Tony.

“Is he okay?”

The nurse taps on the keyboard and then says, “Mister Stark is in triage 23. Are you related?”

Steve nods. “I’m- yeah, I am.”

She sizes him up and frowns. “Are you sure?”

“Ma’am, I’m his boyfriend, please.”

She pauses but then side eyes him, indicating which direction to find triage 23. Steve nods and mouths a thank you as he races toward the appointed area. He weaves through the nurses, and patients, and orderlies as he makes his way to Tony. When he finally gets to triage 23, the curtain is pulled back and Tony’s awake with electrodes attached to his chest. He’s drawn and shaking and a doctor is hovering over him asking him questions. 

“I don’t know, I don’t,” Tony says and his words are like there are marbles in his mouth. 

“Mister Stark, you need to tell me about this scar-.” 

“I can tell you,” Steve says as he steps up to the side of the gurney. There are several nurses around Tony and he looks lost, alone, and vulnerable. Steve knows that feeling all too well from being the hospital multiple times in his life. 

The doctor - a tall man with a bald head and glasses perched on the crown of his dome – zeroes in on Steve and asks, “We need to know a little more about this scarring because it looks like Mister Stark has a blockage.”

“He was in a car accident,” Steve says and clasps Tony’s seeking hand. “A bad one quite a few years ago.” Why doesn’t he know the exact number of years? “His heart and lungs were damaged.”

“He had a thoracic event? With severe bruising to the chest wall?” The doctor scribbles something down on his pad. “Well, we don’t have a lot of time. Mister Stark had an arterial collapse. We need to go in there and put a stent in the anterior interventricular branch of left coronary artery. From the patterns on the EEG, it looks similar to a widowmaker occlusion. We have only one choice but to open up the artery with a stent. If we don’t the blockage will severely damage the left side of his heart.”

“Okay,” Steve says and turns to Tony. “They need to do surgery.”

“It’s a procedure where we will go in through his femoral artery, and then place the stent in the artery on his heart. We don’t need to open his chest.” The doctor takes his glasses off of his head and puts them on. “Let’s get him ready to move.”

“Did you hear, Tony? They don’t have to open your chest. It’s simple,” Steve says but all he sees is Tony’s terrified expression. Tony’s eyes dart around the triage bay, and his hands quake in Steve’s grasp. He moans a little and then claws at his chest as he collapses down onto the pillows again.

“Let’s move it out. We’re losing him,” the doctor yells and then in a flash the nurses swarm the gurney. Tony’s hand is ripped away from Steve’s clasp. They push Steve back without apology. The orderlies rush the gurney through the crowd directing people to move aside. It’s a mad kind of ordered chaos. Steve stands there watching them go and feels smaller. Less. He shivers and then someone takes his hand. 

He looks at his hand, the delicate fingers there. Lifting his gaze, he reads her name tag. Jan – a nurse. “Come, let’s get you set up somewhere comfortable. It won’t take long. He’ll be in the cardiac unit and that’s where you can wait. No need to wait down here in all the craziness.”

“He’s-.” Steve closes his eyes. The world explodes beneath him and he tumbles down into the darkest despair. But he never falls, never once. He stands. He remains standing, all the while the world breaks itself apart in some suicidal fever. 

When he thinks he can feel the world around him again, and sense his face and hands and feet again, Steve hunches over in a lounge with a paper cup of coffee in his hands. He doesn’t remember coming here. He doesn’t remember getting the coffee. He stares at the brown liquid like it’s the enemy. He’s not allowed coffee or shouldn’t be because of his own heart. He takes an unhealthy swig of it, challenging it to kill him now. At some point during the wait both Bucky and Pepper joined him. Bucky sits next to him with his arm draped over Steve’s back, almost protective of him. 

“I had to pick him up. He fell on the bathroom floor and I picked him up and got him into the bed.” He puts the paper cup on the table to the side of the chair. The room looks so routine, so plain and simple. It could be any waiting room, in any hospital. But it is this one, the one where he’s waiting to find out if Tony’s still alive.

“You picked him up?”

Steve nods. “I don’t know where the strength came from, I just did it.”

Bucky jostles him a bit and then says, “Maybe there is a little superhero in you after all.”

Steve only puts his head in his hands, but Pepper comes up to him. He looks up at her. She’s pristine, as always. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, there’s nothing to be sorry for – other than the fact that Doctor Doom is a terrible cardiologist.” She looks like she would chew nails and spit them out at the doctor.

“I don’t think he had anything to do with it,” Steve replies. 

Pepper shakes her head. “A few years ago, Tony had some heart issues. A lot of pain. Doom just told him he couldn’t exercise and to lay off eggs or some shit like that. I sent him to Doctor Bruce Banner and he said that the chest wall injuries had not only caused permanent damage to Tony’s heart but that his arteries needed to have stents in them.”

“And?” Steve asks.

“And Doom got a hold of Tony and told him it was a lot of hogwash. That Tony didn’t have a chance in hell one way or the other so just not to do it,” Pepper says. “And now, now we’re here.”

“Did you say Bruce Banner?” Steve asks. 

“Yes, very prominent cardiologist. Gets really pissed when people don’t listen to him though. Has a little bit of an anger issue.” 

Steve runs his hand through his hair. “I know Banner. He’s in the same group that I go to. I see Doctor Erskine, but everyone knows Banner. He’s pretty well respected. Why didn’t Tony listen to him?”

“Tony’s terrified of dying. He wanted to ignore it, because if he didn’t deal with it, then it wasn’t real. This, this will set him back ages, now.” The worry ages her face and picks out the little lines around her eyes, her nostrils. “All the medicines in the world couldn’t stop this. Who knows what kind of quackery Doom had him on.”

Steve slumps back. “And it’s all my fault. I-I fed him Italian with lots of cheese and wine-.” He covers his face with his hands. “And I-we-.”

“Doing the nasty isn’t the reason Stark had a heart attack.” 

“As always, Bucky, you are so refined,” Steve says and he glances at Pepper who smirks in response.

“Steve, everyone knows what was going on.” Bucky jostles him, but it is gentle and meant to show he cares.

“Not exactly. Not when it happened,” Steve says and then remembers cuddling with Tony just as they finished. 

Bucky snorts and Pepper chuckles. “It’s a little funny,” she says.

“A little,” Bucky says and joins her laughter.

“It is not,” Steve says. “And how can you two be laughing when-.”

The doctor walks into the lounge and smiles at them. “Tony Stark’s family?” 

Pepper turns around and says, “That’s us.”

The doctor takes in the lot of them and Steve wonders what the man – Doctor Batru – must think. His expression never falters. “It went very well. Mister Stark should have had the stents in place ages ago. We were worried that the arteries would be so degraded that we wouldn’t be able to place them. But we were able to. We went ahead and placed four. He might need more. He’ll be on some blood thinners for the next year so he’ll have to try and avoid injury.”

“But he’s okay?” Steve asks and Bucky wraps his right arm around his shoulders. 

“Yes, his heart looks strong. We’re going to monitor him closely over the next day or so. And if everything goes well, he’ll probably leave the hospital by Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest.”

Steve sinks down onto the chair and heaves a sigh of relief. He hears Pepper asking when they can see Tony but all Steve can concentrate on is that Tony’s going to be okay, that he’s all right. That his heart looks strong even after the damage and the heart attack. He does rhythmic breathing almost unconsciously because his lungs fist in his chest and the room wavers and narrows. He knows he doesn’t have his inhaler, because everything went to hell during his big romantic date. As Pepper talks to the doctor, Steve inhales and exhales. He thinks about every breath. He thinks about how his mother would tell him to breathe, please Steven, breathe. His mother told him to breathe, to always stand up, to be brave. That he was stronger than he thought.

“Steve?” 

He blinks and realizes there are tears in his eyes. Wiping them away, he focuses on Bucky hovering over him. “Yeah?”

“The doctor said you won’t be able to get into see Tony until tomorrow.” 

Steve glances around the room and notes that Pepper is on her phone and the doctor is nowhere in sight. “Yeah?”

“You want to go home, rest, and then come back tomorrow.”

He shakes his head. 

Bucky scoffs. “Knew you’d go ahead and do this. You know it will only get you sick.”

“Stop mothering me, Buck. I’m fine. I can handle it. You go and stay with Ian. I don’t want him to be worried.” 

Bucky loiters and then asks, “Are you sure? You want me to get you something before I go?” 

He waves Bucky away. “No, I’m good.”

“Maybe I can charm a nurse to get you an inhaler,” Bucky says and knocks Steve in the shoulder.

“How’d you know?” Bucky only shakes his head. Steve sighs and then says, “See what you can do?”

Bucky laughs and then gives Steve a quick one armed hug. “Take care. It’s going to be okay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says and Bucky’s gone leaving him with Pepper. She finishes on the phone and takes the chair next to Steve. “Are you staying?”

“Just for a little while.” She stays silent and all Steve can hear is the whispers of noises down the corridor.

He peers over her shoulder and down the hallway, wondering if he’s catch a glimpse of Tony as they wheel him to his room, but then he figures that Tony will be in recovery for a while. He sighs and sits back.

“You know, he really likes you a lot,” Pepper says. “I don’t usually pay too much attention to Tony’s dalliances. It’s more trash I have to take out, but you’re different. Very different.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Steve says and he damn well knows what she means but he wants to understand Tony from an outsider’s perspective.

“Well, I’m sure you do,” Pepper says and tilts her head. “But I’ll tell you this. Tony did notice your art ten years ago. He wasn’t the connoisseur he is now. He kept telling me about it, how he wanted you to take the awards, the fellowship. But you didn’t and it frustrated him. He figured he knew nothing about art and ignored the whole thing – or so I thought for ages.”

“Or so you thought?” From what Steve knew of Tony, he is very versed in the art world.

“Apparently, he kept an eye on your career. He went a little ballistic when you joined the army after college. But then you returned and were none the worse for it.” She shrugs. “He had his eye on you for the Maria Stark Foundation since he set it up.”

“Well, he didn’t recruit me. He had an open solicitation for the job online.” Nat had told him about the job opening.

“Not really.”

“What?”

Pepper smiles and says, “You have to understand. Whatever Tony wants, he gets. That doesn’t take anything away from you or your art. He wanted your art first, but then he saw you and I saw him, watched him fall for you.”

“A few lunches together during the course of a work day doesn’t mean love, Ms. Potts.” Steve tries to keep his voice steady.

“I’m not talking about then. Have you ever heard the term, thunderstruck?” Pepper asks. “Thor used to use it all the time. He was thunderstruck, not on Tony but someone else. He was desperate to be with her. His father disapproved. So Thor and Tony conned Odin to realize that Thor could do a lot worse.”

“I’m not exactly sure what to make of that story,” Steve says. “Because it means that Tony was the lot worse part of it.”

“Well, he has a reputation.” Pepper waves at Steve. “But that’s ancient history. What I want to talk about is thunderstruck. As soon as Tony saw you, it happened.”

Steve shifts in his chair. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

“You remember him giving you a hard time about that poster?” 

“Yes, do I!” Steve says with a smile. “I was so angry.”

“Yes, he did it because he was flustered. Really flustered. You walked it and I saw something change, something light up in his eyes. I’ve seen Tony in the middle of an equation or a problem and how he solves it. How it grows and changes him, and he sees the world in a different way after he cracks the problem.”

“I don’t think I’m a problem or even an equation to be solved,” Steve says but at the same time is fascinated by her account.

“No, I don’t mean it like that. But what I mean is that his reaction, his response to you, was so similar. The world transformed that day for him – changed – shifted like an earthquake. He had to get you out of there to figure out what the hell was going on. When he did – he had to immediately go to you,” Pepper says. “Whether you like it or not, Tony Stark is thunderstruck with you.”

“Oh.” Steve feels the heat of blush come to his face. Pepper reaches over and clasps his hand. 

“I don’t think he could have picked a better person. Keep him happy, and keep him safe.” Pepper squeezes his hand and then stands up. “I’m going to call a couple of people that need to know he’s recovering. I’ll stop by in the morning.”

“Okay, I’ll be here.”

She meets his gaze. “Yes, I know.”

And he is. By the time morning rolls around, Steve has too many cups of coffee in him. He also has an inhaler in hand just in case – said one of the nurses. They transferred Tony over to the cardiac care unit and Steve called his own cardiologist to try and get Tony an appointment with anyone other than this Doom person. It’s Sunday and impossible to get in touch with anyone, but he leaves a message. 

By nine in the morning, the hospital staff finally allows him to visit Tony. At first, the apprehension steals his courage, but he listens to his mother – forces one foot in front of the other again and goes to the cardiac care unit. He opens the door slightly and steps into the dimly lit room. He’s half expecting to see Tony bleary eyed, hooked up to machines, and waning in the bed. 

His prediction is only a third right. Tony is still connected to a number of heart monitors, and has a blood pressure cuff on as well as a pulse ox taped to his middle finger. He’s lying flat and bitching about it.

“How long do I have to lie like this? It’s been hours. I’m bored. I don’t want to stare at the ceiling anymore.” 

Standing over the bed, a nurse checks on the leads pasted to Tony’s chest and then says, “Until tonight. You have to lay flat on your back for twenty four hours to ensure the femoral artery heals. You don’t want to bleed to death, do you?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Tony mutters but throws his hands up in the air. “I’m going to have to invent a way to have something over your head to look at for this part of the process, you know.”

The nurse pats him on the shoulder. “Just rest. You’ll be fine.” She turns and sees Steve. “You have a visitor.”

“Is this like twenty questions where I can’t see this mysterious person and I get to guess?” 

“No, Tony, it’s me,” Steve says and steps into his line of sight. As soon as he does, Tony’s eyes soften and he reaches for Steve. They clasp their hands together, fingers interwoven.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” The nurse leaves on whispering feet. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Tony says and the anxiety and tears well up in his eyes. “I screwed up your first time.”

“Technically it was my third time,” Steve says. “Or fourth?” The night blurs together.

Tony smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I still ruined it.”

“What’s a little heart attack to finish off a great date? Makes things exciting like a cliffhanger.” He wants so much to put a smile on Tony’s face, to ensure him that things will be okay. He doesn’t want him to feel the way Steve has on numerous occasions in the hospital. 

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Tony murmurs.

Sighing, Steve admits, “It’s Bucky. He told me to say it when I talked to him earlier this morning.” It really didn’t feel right. But Steve doesn’t have a tool chest of things to make others feel better. His own tool chest always relies on his mother’s memory to keep going, keep trying.

“How long have you been here?” Tony feels right in Steve’s hand; their hands fit together perfectly. 

“Since they brought you in,” Steve says. “I wasn’t going to leave. Bucky came for a bit. So did Pepper and your friend Rhodes. He’s coming over later today.”

“God, I screwed everything up,” Tony says. He puts his other hand over his eyes. “I have a vague recollection of puking all over the place.”

“It was only in the bathroom. Don’t worry about it. You only have to worry about getting well.” Steve squeezes Tony’s hand, trying to offer reassurance yet knowing he’s failing by the desperate look crossing Tony’s features.

“I ruined it all, and now I’m dying.” The resignation in Tony’s words, in his expression eats into the ache in Steve’s chest. 

“You aren’t dying,” Steve says. “You’re just a little broken.”

“Damaged goods. Who wants damaged goods?” Tony says and the tears break free and run down his temples. “My dad always said I was good for nothing. I suppose he was right.” 

The horrible words echo – damaged goods. It’s followed Steve everywhere, all the days of his life. Steve gently brushes away the tears. “I have heart problems. I have lung problems. Diabetes runs in my family. I’m a walking medical book of illnesses. You didn’t give up on me, you – we fell for each other. If you’re damaged goods, so I am. We’ll help one another through this and whatever else comes along.”

Tony closes his eyes. “I knew it. I knew you were too good for me.”

“That’s not true. At all. Now, why don’t you sleep, and I will be right here. I’ll hold your hand and you can rest.” He brushes a hand through the mess of Tony’s hair, the dark curls wrapping around his fingers. He plays with them a little and smiles down at Tony.

“You should go, rest, not be bothered by me.”

Steve shakes his head. “You know, when I met you, the first time.,I came home so angry. So pissed. But I know now it wasn’t at you. It was at me. Because I saw you and I- I wanted more than just a job. I thought I’d never have a chance. But then-.”

“I fell,” Tony whispers. His eyes are open, staring at something only he can see within his mind. “At first sight. I never thought it would be possible. Hell, I’d seen pictures of you before. I watched your career-.”

“Or lack thereof,” Steve adds. He lets a gentle smile spread over his face, sharing the soft memories with Tony.

Tony turns his head and meets Steve’s gaze. “When I saw you, all bets were off. Pepper told me, said I was thunderstruck. I tried to deny it. I couldn’t. Tell me we’re going to be okay?” The helplessness laced with hopelessness in Tony’s voice pains Steve. It digs a hole, wide and deep in his chest.

In response, he grasps Tony’s hand with both of his. “We are. I’m not afraid of this – not at all. We can do this together Tony. I promise.” Tony lets out a breath, but it staggers in his chest and he gives a muffled cry. Steve leans over, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, and finally his lips. “I promise, Tony. Now rest.”

Tony nods and clutches Steve’s hand, bringing it to his chest, to his heart. “Okay,” he says in a barely audible whisper. There’s such loss in Tony’s gaze, in the depths of his eyes, that Steve freezes his expression so that he will not respond, so that the tears threatening to come will stop. 

“Sleep. I’m right here.” Steve yanks a chair over with his foot, and settles down as Tony drifts off to sleep. 

Sunday ends with Tony finally being allowed to sit upright and eating an only palatable dinner. He jokes about wanting more lasagna and the doctor frowns at him. Throughout the day there’s a stream of visitors from Pepper and Rhodes to Natasha and Bucky. Steve never really thinks of Nat knowing Tony, but she’s one of his closest employees on the business side of things. Normally, Steve doesn’t see her during the day since he’s on the Foundation floor and she’s either up on the SI floors or flying all over the place for Tony. 

By the end of the day, Tony’s exhausted and the doctors and nurses usher them all out of the room, telling them that the floor is closed to visitors. Steve can’t convince them otherwise and Bucky finally gets Steve to agree to go home. When he does, Ian is still up sitting on Jocasta’s lap. It’s far too late for him to be up but Steve sees the ruin of his son’s expression and feels like a jerk. 

Ian races across the floor, clinging to him as Steve picks him up. “Hey, hey, I’m here. Don’t you worry about it. I’m here.”

Ian sobs and buries his face in Steve’s collar. When Steve shifts his attention to Jocasta she confesses, “He’s been pretty upset tonight. He didn’t expect you to be gone so long.”

He kisses Ian’s head and sways to and fro. “It’ll be okay. I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

Ian nods but holds on tight. It surprises Steve how much both Tony and Ian gravitate to him to support and protect them as if he is their shield against the rest of the world. He sees Jocasta watching them. “I’m sorry, Jocasta. This has been a crappy weekend. Do you need tomorrow off?” 

“No problem. I can cover tomorrow.It was fun,” Jocasta says as she picks up her bag and phone. “Plus Bucky and Nat were here to tag team. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” She lets herself out as Bucky and Natasha find their way to Bucky’s bedroom.

Steve turns to Ian. “Hey, you want to sleep with me tonight?”

“Yeah,” Ian mumbles and then yawns. 

“Okay, off to the big bed,” Steve says and carries Ian to the master bedroom. He tucks him in and Ian’s almost asleep but he blinks heavy lids at Steve.

“You not going away like Jett?” His wide dark eyes implore with fears and hopes.

“No, I’m right here, I’m not leaving,” Steve says and leans down. He kisses Ian’s forehead. “Everything’s okay.”

Exhaustion lays on Steve’s shoulders like a mantle, but he waits until Ian’s sleeping before he gets up and goes to shower. He hasn’t cleaned up since before the awful hours of Tony’s heart attack. While the water cascades down his chest, the memories rattle him and he places a hand against the tiles and lets out a quiet sob. Just seeing Tony, helpless and broken, affected him. Talk about being thunderstruck. He wants to just crumble apart, but he manages to glue himself back together as he cleanses away the stench of the memories. Toweling off, he dries and then quickly gets in his boxers with a t-shirt. Luckily, Ian stays silent in the bed as Steve flips off the light and crawls under the covers beside him. 

Onslaught – Monday should be renamed onslaught as far as Steve’s concerned. It starts off with a text from Sharon informing Steve that it looks like the judge will, at least, offer bail for Zola, and that he will be out by the end of the day or early on Tuesday. They have a good idea about Jett over in Queens but since Tony’s laid up, and Steve doesn’t want to task him in his condition, they have to wait before approaching her. On top of that, Ian melts down when Steve wants to go and visit Tony so it takes a lot longer to get him to settle and he has to call in reinforcements for Jocasta. In the end, Bucky reschedules his appointment for his permanent arm and stays with them to keep Ian calm.

When Steve visits Tony in the hospital, he’s pleased to see there’s a marked improvement in his attitude. He’s sitting up, has his phone, and a spread of food before him. Steve enters the room just as Pepper exits. She tells him that he doesn’t have to worry about missing work; right now his job is with Tony. He thanks her before going to greet Tony.

“Hey,” Steve says and itches to lean over and kiss Tony. 

“Hey,” Tony answers and extends a hand. Steve accepts the invitation and grasps his hand to lean in and kiss him. When they part, Tony says, “I missed you.”

“Sorry. I missed you, too. Ian really needed to see me a little this morning. He’s having a bit of a meltdown.” He shrugs. “I don’t know why, I’ve been away on trips. So this isn’t new for him.”

“Kids sense things, or so I’ve been told.” Tony pokes at the cup of tapioca pudding. 

“I suppose,” Steve says. “But how do you feel?”

“Better. They think I can leave tomorrow.” It looks like he might attack the pudding, but instead he pushes it aside.

Steve frowns. “Really, you had a heart attack. That doesn’t seem right.” He has great doubts about Tony’s cardiologist.

“Well, I am seeing a new doc today. I heard you had a hand in getting him. Bruce Banner from the practice you see? I saw him before, but Doom set me up. Doom said Banner wasn’t any good because he served the underserved. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. I think I hate Doom. I might have to sue him, or something.” Tony sets his phone on the tray and then sips the apple juice. “I think they think I’m a kid. They gave me apple juice instead of coffee.”

“You have to stop with the coffee.” When Tony starts to protest, Steve puts up his index finger. “I’m not listening to ‘it’s the stuff of life’ crap. You have to understand that coffee is not good for your heart.”

“Well, for now, I will listen. For a little while. Like today.” He cringes as he drinks the apple juice.

“We’ll talk about it,” Steve says. “But you’re seeing Banner – that’s great. If you don’t like him you can always see my doctor. Erskine is great. I think I might have like died three or four times without him.” 

“Die-died?” Tony says and places a hand on his chest. It’s enough to scare Steve.

“What? Are you okay? Do you want me to call the nurse?” Steve clasps his hands over Tony’s.

“No, no,” Tony says and scowls. “I’m okay. I’m fine. Do you know that my arteries that feed my heart were damaged during the crash, too? They should have been stented all along. Doom denied I needed stents, just goes to show you money doesn’t always buy the best care. He never did anything!” He growls at little. “I’m gonna so sue that guy.”

“Don’t get yourself riled up about it. There’s nothing to be done.” 

Tony ruffles a hand through his hair. It’s sticking up in the front and flat in the back. He has a stubble on his jaw line that’s never there normally. He waves his hands around at his body. “Look what he did to me. I had a heart attack. My heart is already damaged. I had my heart working pretty well. It was going well. Now this!” 

“Tony, Tony,” Steve says and grabs his hands. “I know what you’re going through. I have a ton of health problems myself. It’s going to be okay. We’ll weather this.”

“How, how can I get through this?” He’s trembling in Steve’s grasp.

Meeting Tony’s gaze, Steve says, “We’ll do it, together.” 

Tony smiles and shakes his head. “You are so optimistic. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Years of practice. I spent a lot of time sick as a kid. Still spend most of the winter fighting off pneumonia and trying to stay well, I had to learn to be optimistic. Otherwise what else do I have?” It’s not a sob story. It’s just the plain truth. Steve’s not going to let his chronic health problems rule his life. He can’t. Every day it’s something. Some days, it’s hard to get out of bed. Some days his head hurts with migraines, or his chest aches with asthma. He pushes through it, facing the storm of his illnesses. He can’t always do it. Sometimes it defeats him, but he always climbs back up, and faces his fears. 

Tony tugs him close and they hug. Steve wants to crawl into Tony’s bed, hold him close, but with all of the wires it’s impossible. Tony buries his face at the side of his neck and Steve’s reminded of Ian, seeking comfort and solace last night. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Tony cries then. It is quiet and soft and opens up a hole in Steve’s soul. Tony stays curled into Steve, and with a little maneuvering, Steve’s able to get the side of the bed down and he sidles onto the bed. He cradles Tony in his arms, close and tight. He pets his hair and kisses his temple. It takes a while but Tony calms down. It will take everything Steve has to dig him out of the hole. Eventually, Tony falls asleep, and Steve slips out of the bed and out of the room in time to greet Doctor Bruce Banner standing at the nurse station. 

“Doctor Banner?” Steve says. He recognizes the doctor from the photographs of providers on the website for the cardiology group he routinely sees.

“Y-yes?” Banner looks up from the tablet he’s studying. 

Steve runs a hand through his hair and says, “I’m not sure if you’re seeing Tony Stark right now or not. I’m a friend of his. I called the practice for him.”

“I can’t discuss his care with you due to privacy rules,” Banner says. As Steve studies the doctor, he discovers his wiry hair conceals a pair of glasses. It throws him for a second but he quickly recovers.

“No, I’m not asking. I’m telling.”

Banner cocks a brow and tilts his head. “Telling what?” His words are both soft and firm; there’s a strange mix of unassuming and badass mixed with the good doctor’s demeanor. 

“He needs a lot of help, Doctor Banner. He’s upset. He needs some reassurance.” Steve tells himself he’s asking for Tony, he convinces himself that this is what a good friend (a lover) would do. But the truth runs deep, like an aquafer feeding the well of fear inside of him. 

Banner smiles and Steve finds a certain comfort in it. “Well, we have a ways to go before we need to pull out the alarm bells. We need to do some cardiac function tests and once we have the results of that, then we decide if he can tolerate some cardiac physical therapy.”

“His previous doctor said no exercising.”

A fleeting look of rage crosses Banner’s features. “Let’s say that Doom and I don’t see eye to eye on this one. Or on a lot of things.”

“Okay,” Steve says. He already trusts this doctor. “Are you going to see him now?”

“Just in a few.”

“He’s sleeping so you might want to wait,” Steve replies.

“Good to know,” Banner says and offers his hand. “I don’t think I got your name?”

“Rogers, My name is Steve Rogers.” 

Banner takes his hand and smiles. “It’s nice to know that Mister Stark has concerned friends. I’ll examine him after he’s rested and hopefully get things on track.”

“Thanks. Thank you.” He peers over his shoulder at the door leading to Tony’s room. “It’s been a hectic few days.”

“I bet it has.”

It turns out that Bruce Banner is actually a fairly unimposing guy even though there’s sparks of impatience when he reads through Doom’s notes on Tony. Steve considers this a good sign. Once Tony wakes up, Banner introduces himself. Steve starts to excuse himself from the meeting, but Tony catches him and asks him to stay. Rooted in place, Steve does and Banner takes it in stride. 

After the exam, Banner says, “You’re on the right track now. We have to check your cardiac function and get you some physical therapy to strengthen your heart.”

Tony glances between the doctor and Steve. “Is that safe? I’ve been swimming, but Doctor Doom said I shouldn’t be taxing myself with any physical activity at all.”

“Well,” Banner says and then screws up his mouth as he scratches his temple. “That’s kind of old school, very old school. The heart is a muscle and as such, needs to be trained and exercised like any muscle. If you had a torn muscle in your calf, you would need physical therapy to get it to function again after it healed. It’s the same principle.”

“Is there any way to repair it?” Steve asks even as Tony frowns.

“Unfortunately no, but we can strengthen the muscle that’s there to compensate for the weakened fibers. You aren’t in any danger now. I’ll get you a list of some of the best cardio therapists,” Banner says as he taps on his tablet. “You do the exercises two to three times a week, you’ll be fit in no time at all. I’m going to ask my clinical assistant to get in touch with you and set up an office appointment next week. This week I want you to rest, take short walks, eat right, and sleep.”

“Okay,” Tony says and he fiddles with the blanket. “I think I can do that.”

“We’ll make sure of it, Doctor,” Steve says and places a hand on Tony’s shoulder.

Banner eyes them and then bows his head slightly. “I just don’t want to assume or anything. But let’s just say no other physical activities except for that short walk, okay?” He looks up at them and seems a little more abashed but with a small smile and glimmer in his eyes.

Steve bobs his head. “Okay, yeah. We won’t. I mean, I won’t. I mean.”

Tony laughs and reaches over to Steve. “Don’t. You’re hurting yourself.” He squeezes Steve’s hand. “Thanks, Doc. I mean it. If you need anything, you call me. I can get it for you, because I’m rich. Very rich. Richer than you.”

Banner cocks a brow at him and says, “Thanks. No need. But take care. I’ll have my admin contact you. I’ll be by tomorrow to check you before you’re released.”

“Thanks,” Steve says as Banner exits the room. It might only be the smallest thing, but Steve’s sure that having Tony’s care under Doctor Banner is the right path. Satisfied, Steve faces Tony and recognizes a softer, calmer expression. “You feel better about things?”

Tony shrugs a little and goes back to fiddling with the blanket again. “Yeah, I think? I suppose so. He’s good, right?”

“I go to his partner, Doctor Erskine. Like I said, I should be dead like four times over, but that practice saved me. Truth be told, if it wasn’t for Erskine I would never have been able to get into the Army.”

Tony forgets the blanket and runs his fingers up and down Steve’s palm. “I kind of wish he wouldn’t have been able to do it. Maybe we would have met sooner. Maybe things would have been different. I wouldn’t be -.”

“What? Damaged goods? Again with that phrase? You aren’t damaged goods. Neither of us is damaged goods, Tony.” Steve bends over the short distance to reach Tony and kisses him. “Don’t think that way. I know what it feels like-.”

“We could have had more time-.”

“No, Tony, don’t think like that. None of us know how much time we have,” Steve says and kisses him again. The worry and fear shiver through Tony and Steve only wishes he could shelter him from all of his fears, hold him and take care of him. “None of us. I’m here. You understand? I’m here for you.”

Tony nestles against Steve’s neck again and it feels natural and good just to embrace him, to wrap Tony in his arms and keep him safe. For the second time, Steve keeps him quiet and reassures him. As the day progresses and others comes to visit, Tony strengthens and with Steve by his side builds up an armor to face the future with its hopes and its dangers. 

Reluctantly, Steve departs as night settles over New York. “I have to stop by the apartment in Brooklyn. I want to clean up and turn in my keys to the landlady. So I might be a little late tomorrow.”

Tony yawns. “It’s okay. Pepper and Rhodey are coming by to help get me to the Tower. So why don’t you just do that and I’ll be waiting at home.”

“Home?” Steve says.

“Yeah, you and Ian should come to the penthouse tomorrow. It might be nice to spend a little more time with him.” Tony’s words are tentative, cautious as if he’s testing the waters with Steve.

Steve can’t suppress his smile and says, “Thank you.”

“Oh no, my Captain, thank you,” Tony says and rubs the back of Steve’s hand. “I feel like I’ve been rescued.”

“I think we both might have been,” Steve whispers and the warmth of admission reddens his cheeks. Before Steve can say anything else, the nurse arrives and announces that visiting hours are long over and that Steve really should leave. 

With a quick peck on the cheek, Steve waves and says, “Rest.”

“Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or not. I’m not sure how that works.”

“Me neither,” Steve says and leaves. All in all, it ends up being a good day. Steve believes that Tony’s made progress not only physically and health wise but also by talking with Doctor Banner. He’s actually stepped more firmly (though with some hesitation) on a new path towards stronger medical treatments. 

Getting home and getting to snuggle with Ian breaks away all of Steve’s doubts. Although he’s shown his normally reserved demeanor to Tony – the worries wash over him when he holds Ian as he sleeps. It isn’t a torrent but a patter of rain that covers him while he considers how to handle everything. He hasn’t even checked in at work, but he knows that Pepper will give him a waver on that one. He needs to get his ducks in a row about Tony, about work, about Ian. Which reminds him to check his messages.

One from Sharon is particularly alarming. _Zola went in front of the judge. Due to the circumstantial evidence and the eyewitness missing, he’s been set free._ He’d thought it was only a bail judgement. Does Sharon mean the charges were dropped, or does she mean that bail was set and Zola made bail? Questions pop up and he tries not to feel the acid burn his stomach. 

That’s all kinds of bad and he quells his racing heart as much as he can. He’ll need to talk to Sharon tomorrow after he goes to the apartment. Not only does he need to get from Happy the address and contact information for Jett, but he also needs to ensure that Ian will be safe while he runs around the city to figure things out. He sends a message back to Sharon asking to meet her tomorrow for lunch. He needs to get everything clarified and his strategy aligned. 

Luckily, the next morning he catches Bucky before he leaves for his new job and tells him the news about Zola. Bucky drinks down the last of his coffee but sputters and gulps as Steve explains.

“That’s a crock of shit.”

“Tell me about it,” Steve says. “I just don’t want Ian to be anywhere near Brooklyn so he can’t go to daycare today. I’m telling Jocasta to keep him home until we figure things out.” 

“Okay,” Bucky says as places his mug in the sink. “Nat can talk to Happy about Jett. I’m sure they can get her to the police for her statement.”

“If she could do that today, that would be great,” Steve says. He’s only just gotten out of bed. His hair’s still a mess and he aches all over from having Ian sleep on top of him most of the night. “Hopefully, once Tony’s out of the hospital and this whole thing with Zola is over, Ian will not need me as a Teddy bear at night.”

“Teddy bear?” Ian says as he pads his way out of the master bedroom into the living room. He drags his transformer with him. That’s always a nice toy to sleep with – Steve has the impression of Optimus Prime on his butt, he’s sure. Ian looks around and asks, “Where’s Jocasta?”

“She’ll be here in a bit,” Steve replies as Bucky grabs his keys and his backpack. “See you later tonight. I have an appointment with Clint for my fitting and physical therapy so I’ll be late.”

Steve checks kettle for tea and then his phone. Sharon responded that she can meet at 11 am but not for long and not for lunch. He texts her a coffee shop in Brooklyn. “Okay, see you. You’ll talk to Nat about Happy?”

“Yep,” Bucky says and knocks Ian on the head. “Bye Squirt. See you later.”

“Bye, Buckarooni.”

Bucky only rolls his eyes. As he passes the kitchen he steals the bagel Steve’s just buttered, and then says, “Boyfriend’s coming home today.” He makes kissy faces at Steve and then grimaces as he puts the bagel down. “Ugh, that’s stale. You are living this side of paradise, Stevie. It’s time to throw away stale bread and moldy cheese.”

“Nothing wrong with a little moldy cheese,” Steve yells as Bucky disappears into the elevator as the doors close.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Steve asks as he turns to his son.

The little boy holds up Optimus Prime and yells out, “Not moldy cheese!”

Steve smirks and agrees. “No moldy cheese it is.” As he preps Ian’s breakfast, Steve sends a message of good morning to Tony, confirms his appointment with Sharon, and then gets dressed after he places the waffles in front of Ian as he watches Disney channel. “You’re going to melt your brain with that stuff, you know.”

“Gonna melt yours with the phone,” Ian says and grins – waffle bits falling out of his mouth.

“Always a smarty,” Steve says and rushes to the bedroom. He dresses in his old jeans and a t-shirt. Throwing on his hoodie, he pockets his inhaler, wallet, keys, and phone. As he checks on Ian, Jocasta greets him and he directs her not to go to Brooklyn for the foreseeable future.

The confusion in her expression is clear, but Steve doesn’t want to address the issue in front of Ian. He gives a sidelong glance to Ian. “Just not until I tell you it’s okay.”

Jocasta gets the clue that he’ll talk to her about it later and she nods. “Well, we’ll find something else to do. No problem.”

“Are you sure? Most of the time you take off on Tuesdays,” Steve says. He knows she takes college classes during the time that Ian’s at the pre-school.

She tosses her head and giggles. “Most of my classes are online. Usually I just go to the library while Ian’s at the preschool and I work there,” she says and waves him off. 

Through a full mouth, Ian says, “Boff in school.” 

“That’s right, smarty pants,” Jocasta says. “I think you’re going to be on the honor roll. If only I had a good tutor.”

Ian stands up on the couch. “I can do it! Tell you all about the A-B-Cs!”

“See?” Jocasta smiles at Steve.

“Okay, but I’ll figure something else out for Thursday. I apologize.” He collects cleaning supplies puts them all in a bucket and then kisses Ian’s crown as he leaves. “Be good.”

“Always good!” Ian jumps up and down on the couch and starts to somersault on the cushions.

“And that proves you’re not,” Steve returns but allows Jocasta to take control of the situation as the elevator arrives and he gives his son air kisses as he leaves. Traveling across town without the van is a chore. He spends most of his time on his phone, texting Tony.

_Doc was here this morning_

_Banner?_

_Yep and Doom showed up too_

_Oh no._

_I thought Banner was going to turn into a green rage monster. It was great_

_What’d Doom say?_

_Not much. His expression was the best. Like his face turned into metal mask. Was great_

Steve giggles and the senior lady across from him on the subway raises an eyebrow at him. His stop is called, and he exits. He taps out a quick goodbye to Tony with a little heart and then walks the blocks to his old apartment. With the bucket and mop it’s a little clumsy but he makes it there without too much hassle and only his routine shortness of breath issues. Once at the apartment, he climbs the stairs and stops in front of his door. It’s probably the last time he’ll be there. He’ll visit the neighborhood, since Sam and Riley live around the corner, but the fact remains that he’s saying goodbye to his old life. It’s a wonder to think of his new life. What’s happened to him, how lucky he’s been.

Smiling, he pulls the keys out of his pocket and they jangle. He slips the apartment key into the lock, and then twists open the doorknob. No one pops open a door across the hallway, but he’s not surprised. Roc and Groot are probably at work or in Groot’s case protesting and tying himself to trees. 

Of course the keys stick and he grumbles but it’s half-hearted. Kicking the door, he dislodges the keys and then throws them on the kitchen counter. As soon as he enters his eyes tears – the stench hits him. 

Spoiled food mixed with vomit. 

It takes all of his willpower not to add to the latter. First things first. He places his phone next to the keys and then pulls out the bottle of bleach and the box of garbage bags. All the food goes – every single bit of it. His mother would shake her head and glare at him with that disapproving gaze. What a waste.

As he works he turns on some music. Marvin Gaye – an album Sam gave him for his birthday. He only has a few hours before he needs to set everything aside and go and meet Sharon for lunch down the street. They have to get Jett involved. If she stays on the run and Zola’s lawyers are devious enough, Jett will end up with a target on her back and a charge of murdering her own mother.

He shakes his head and starts the water in the kitchen sink, squirting out dish soap. Then off to the really disgusting job of cleaning up the vomit in the bathroom. It’s dry and hard and Steve takes his shirt and flips it over his nose to help alleviate the stench. Half way through he breaks down and goes to the kitchen to get a drink of water. He’s sweaty and disgusting. Maybe he should cancel with Sharon today and try for something tomorrow.

Just as he reaches for his phone, someone knocks on the door. It’s nearly ten thirty; maybe Sharon decided to stop over. He’d told her he would be in the area, cleaning out his old apartment in the morning. He tosses the phone, rinses off his hands, and then turns off the music. 

“One second,” he yells. He hopes it’s not Sharon; the odor of spoiled food and puke lingers in the air. He crosses the room, jumping over his cleaning supplies and going to the window. He opens the one leading to the fire escape, but he can’t open the second window in the living room because it had been painted shut years ago. He curses once as the knocking grows more insistent. “Coming.”

With a quick hand through his hair to at least present some semblance of order, Steve opens the door but his smile immediately fades. “Zola.”

It isn’t only Zola, but two of his biggest meanest looking friends, too. “I want my son.”

Before Steve grapples with the fact that Zola’s standing in the hallway, the man barges into the threshold of the apartment. Steve snaps out of his daze of surprise and puts a shoulder to the door to close it. He never has a chance because one of Zola’s associates – the one that is big mean and looks like he eats skulls for breakfast – rams the door out of Steve’s clutches and swings it open wide for all of them. Steve stumbles backward; only the kitchen counter stops him from falling to the floor. 

All three of his unexpected and unwanted guests crowd into the apartment then close and lock the door behind them. The other of Zola’s associates is quietly dangerous. That’s the only way Steve can describe him. The man surveys the apartment, reminding Steve of the combat soldiers he worked with in the Army. He looks ex-Marine to Steve.

“As I asked before, so kindly, where is my son?”

“Well, you didn’t exactly ask that, did you?” Steve snaps back. He can be just as snarky as the next guy. “And who are your goons?”

“These are my associates, kindly offered to me to set things right by my lawyer,” Zola says but he snorts a laugh at the same time. 

Steve assesses the situation. Zola wouldn’t have been a problem. He handily evaded the man’s clumsy attack and saved Ian in the process. But the two others – they’re a different story. This isn’t like the guards at the Tower. These men are dangerous and unpredictable. Trained, Steve can see it the way they hold themselves. They are willing to hurt, willing to kill. He can see in their eyes they have killed before. Steve knows he can’t out muscle them, so he switches tactics. “So you went from brilliant scientist to half assed villain?” Okay that’s a little too much of his snark coming out. Bucky would not approve.

“I went from a good and loving husband and father to a man whose own daughter murdered my wife in front of me and some stranger stole my son,” Zola hisses and then with a slight jerk of his head he orders the one that looks like he eats skulls to confront Steve.

Hands up in surrender, Steve sidles around to try and get to the open window. “Jett did not murder your wife.” He glances at the two men with Zola. “You do know that he killed his wife and tried to kill his children, right? He abused his wife for years before he -.”

skull eater guypunches Steve in the gut. He doubles over, collapsing to his knees. His breath rasps in his throat and he grits his teeth trying to calm his tortured lungs. Peering up from his hunched position, he sees the guy who hit him fist his hand again. There’s a crossbones tattoo on his bicep. 

“Now, tell me where my children are?” Zola says and points to the door. “Castle stand guard by the door if you’re not going to be any use.” The other goon takes up position by the door. His eyes keep flicking around the room, checking out every aspect of it. But always landing back on the small pile of toys in the corner that Steve never packed to bring to Ian in the Tower. 

Zola continues his tirade. “I would very much like to talk to Jett. She should be remorseful.” As he speaks he pulls out a cigarette, lights it, and blows the smoke at Steve. “It’s amazing what some connections will bring you.” Steve’s no idea what that means. What is Zola playing at?

“You’re demented,” Steve says, as he turns his head to get a fresh breath of air. Even as Crossbones threatens, Steve gets back on his feet. “What are you hoping to accomplish by threatening me? It’s not helping your case.” He eyes the goon by the door, Castle. “You hurt your own children.” 

Zola growls, “Liar, you lie.” 

“Child protective services wouldn’t say that.” Steve lobs that ball blindly. He has no idea if any official protective services were ever called on Zola’s family and his abuse but Steve needs to test the big guy by the door. Unfortunately, the man remains passive but alert, his eyes darkly dangerous.

“There is no case,” Zola is saying. “No one can say anything-.”

“Except your daughter,” Steve says. He swallows down the smoke, stifling his cough. “And she will. She’ll testify against you. And I will too. I saw the state of the apartment. How scared Ian was and still is of you.”

Zola advances on him, but Steve slips closer to the window, the open window to the fire escape. “Where is my son? What have you done with him?”

“You’ll never get him back,” Steve says and Crossbones leaps at him. Steve ducks and picks up a discarded book to shield himself from the attack. Crossbones uses his whole body as a battering ram and Steve has little defense against him. He staggers backward with the momentum and slams up against the wall, his head smacking into it. The lights flash in his vision, but he fights away the pain. A cough chokes his throat. Kicking upward, Steve manages to get in a solid thrust to Crossbones’ groin. The man drops like a log and Steve pushes away.

“Leave now before I call the police.” His phone is across the room. He’ll never get to it in time, but Zola doesn’t know the lay of the land, has no idea if Steve has his phone on him or not. He mimes touching his jeans’ pocket. “Get out.”

“You’ll tell me where my son is. You will give me my son, Mister Rogers. Then you will tell me where that disgrace of a daughter I have is.” Zola flicks the cigarette to the floor, the embers hot and red. 

“There’s nothing you can do to make me tell you, Zola. You might as well leave before I do call the police.” Steve inches toward the open window as Crossbones, with a hand cupped to his own crotch, gets to his feet. 

“Call them. Go ahead.” Zola glares at Steve when he doesn’t move. “Not so sure of yourself now, are you?”

“I’m not giving you Ian or Jett. Neither of them deserve you as their father. Not after what you did to them,” Steve says, throwing in the last part because the guy at the door, Castle, jitters now. He’s teetering and unsure of his alliances. Steve reads it plainly. Turning to Zola, Steve says, “You don’t deserve to be a father.”

The rage breaks free and Zola rushes at Steve who easily avoids him and attempts to jump for the window. But Crossbones grabs the waistband of his jeans and hauls him back into the apartment. The other goon comes to their aid, closing the window. Struggling in his assailant’s grip, Steve cannot find a weakness to break free.

“Show him how serious I am,” Zola says.

The order is right out of one of the comic books Steve reads to Ian. He might have learned a thing or two about defense in the Army, but truly he was part of the force for his brain, not for his muscles. Castle grips Steve, too tight for any hope of escape. Steve must have read him wrong, must have read the sympathy in his expression wrong. Crossbones flies at Steve with a fist that pummels and crashes against Steve’s body. The flurry and fury astound him as he tries again and again to dodge but only fumbles back into Castle as the man keeps Steve upright. The cramped space doesn’t allow for any of his tricks to evade and dodge to work. He can’t get free of Castle, he can’t evade the fists. He’s tasting blood not even two minutes into the fight. Another fist hits his face and knocks him to the wall. Finally Castle releases him. Steve slides down the wall, the room darkens. 

_He hears Ian crying for his mother as Zola stands there, covered in her blood. In the distance, Jett’s screaming and holding onto her mother’s cooling body._

“Never,” Steve mutters. There’s blood running down his face from his nose, from a split lip, from the cut on the side of his face, but he still gets back to his feet. Even wavering, he still stands up. “Never. You’re never going to hurt them again.”

Zola shakes his head, his eyes pig like slits, his mouth puckered around the cigarette. “What makes you think you can stop me?”

Steve inhales and holds it. Getting his breath is half of the battle. Fists raised at his attackers who barely look like they are in a fight at all, Steve wobbles but says, “I can do this all day.”

“Well, I cannot.” Zola nods to Crossbones. 

A kick to Steve’s chest fells him. He heaves in a breath but no air fills his lungs. Zola stands over him. “You are nothing. You will give me back my son and tell me where my treacherous daughter is.” 

Steve places his hand on the floor, pushes up, but he fails. His arm gives out as his bronchi locks up and his breath wheezes. Catching in his throat, the air whistles and then his bronchi close. He collapses to the floor and tries for his pocket where he knows he stowed his inhaler, but Zola is there. He crushes Steve’s hand under his booted foot, pressing down with all of his weight. 

With the air escaping his lungs, Steve’s attempts to yank his hand free and Zola laughs. He digs his heel in and Steve gulps, once, twice, three times as tears leak from his eyes. He cannot voice a scream as the small bones of his right hand fracture. He heaves in what breath he can, but it fails to fill his lungs. The ache burns through him and he opens his mouth yet nothing comes out. No scream. No plea. No curse. 

The room around him narrows; the light dims. “Tie him so he can’t get free.”

Zola finally lets up on Steve’s hand and the rush of blood into his tortured fingers spikes through him like the piercing cold of ice. The agony heightens his need for air but he’s fully into an asthma attack. He forces himself to calm, to breathe. He feels hands on him, but they aren’t the hands of help. They aren’t Bucky’s hands or Tony’s hands. Lights flash and blink between the coming darkness as they drag him over to a kitchen chair. In his haze as drool and blood mix and stain his lips, Steve slumps as they rope him to the chair.

He hears one of them say, “Zola, where’s the money? You said this guy had money. This place looks like a shit apartment to me. Smells like someone puked.”

The other one, and Steve guesses through the hazy pain that it’s Castle, says, “The kids. Is that true? Did you hit them?”

Zola doesn’t answer, instead he must have found Steve’s phone and read the notifications on the locked screen, because he says, “He had a meeting today with that little bitch social worker about custody of my son. There’s a message on the phone.”

“What the fuck do we care? Where the hell is the money?” That’s Crossbones. “You said we’d get well paid for this.”

“Ross paid you to assist me,” Zola snaps.

“He didn’t pay me to help a child abuser,” Castle snarls.

“Don’t care if Ross promised me the god damned moon. You said this guy had money.” Crossbones hisses.

“You said this guy stole your kid,” Castle spits out. “Doesn’t seem that way to me now.” 

Crossbones advances on Zola as the little air in Steve’s lungs burn. Even as Zola’s alliance falters, Steve loses the struggle to stay alert. The lack of air defeats him. Darkness swallows up the room as Steve hears echoes of someone roaring about family and children and its sanctity. The ache in his lungs pulses through Steve and he sinks into the abyss.

When cold water dumps over his head, Steve jerks away. He expected to wake up dead (can you do that?) or on the floor, instead he finds himself tied to the kitchen chair. He almost groans – it’s so cliché it’s laughable. He supposes he shouldn’t laugh – he is about to die. His one eye is swollen shut. There’s dry blood under his nose and on his lip. His hand, his right hand, throbs and he imagines it must be reddish purple and swollen as well. He can’t tell; his arms are behind him. Looking around the room, only Zola greets him. His goons are nowhere to be found. Zola settles into a chair at the kitchen table across from Steve. 

“Now we can do this easily. Or we can do this the hard way.” 

“I’m not giving you anything. What you’re doing now is going to ensure you’ll never see your son again,” Steve replies and there’s a certain freedom, a certain power in that realization. “The minute you stepped through my door, you sealed your fate.” 

“May I tell you a story?”

Steve glances around, ignoring Zola as he tries to get assess the threat level. He’s Army trained and it happened to be part of his analyst job. He knows what’s in the kitchen, what he can use as weapons. But the fact remains, Steve’s not powerful. He’s not a superhero. He has to use his head to get out of this situation. 

“I can see you are not so interested, but I will tell you anyway,” Zola says. He takes out another cigarette. It is European and the stench is strong in the air as he lights it. He throws the extinguished match on the floor. Wafts of smoke twist and curl upward. “You know of Schmidt? Everyone in the city knows of Schmidt and Hydra.”

Steve clenches his teeth as he evens out his tortured breaths, all the while wondering what the hell happened to Zola’s ‘friends’. 

“Schmidt is a fanatic but a powerful man. I believe he can do anything. One day he just might. But he made a mistake. He did not clean up his messes. I worked with him for many years. He never heeded my advice.” Zola gets up from the chair and walks to the window, staring out at the mid-day city streets. “I wonder if you will heed my advice.”

“And what is that?” Steve watches as Zola puts the cigarette to his mouth, the faintest tell – he’s nervous. His hand shakes, ever so slightly.

“It is a simple thing to understand. The child is mine. He is my flesh and blood,” Zola says as he turns back to the window. “I will get him back, one way or the other.”

“You killed his mother.” 

Zola crosses back to the table. He sits across from Steve again. “Some people in this life are tools, nothing more.” He sounds confident, assured, but Steve spots a fine sheen of sweat on his upper lip, on his brow.

Steve lifts a shoulder. It aches from the strain of his arms being tied to the chair. He’s not even sure what they used to bind him. “Is that why you got rid of your goons? They just tools too?” A flicker goes through Zola’s eyes that he tries to hide. Steve glimpses it before he’s able to freeze his face. The goons are gone, but not because Zola sent them away. “They left, didn’t they? You didn’t send them away. They left.”

It earns him a backhand across the face that split open his lip again and he gags on the blood. While his asthma hasn’t truly abated, he can breathe right now. He doesn’t want to tempt fate. He spits out the blood and glowers at Zola. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

Zola rages at him. “I will flay you. You do know that I have been to places, seen things that only the most perverse in the world would see.”

“And I’m sure you enjoyed it.” Bucky would absolutely kill Steve right now. The snark coming out of his mouth is legendary.

Again, another strike to his face, but this time with his whole fist. Steve blinks as tears and blood run down his cheeks. How long can he hold out? Not long. It’s after his appointed hour to meet Sharon, but she’s not going to come here to find him. Tony and Bucky know he’s in Brooklyn. Bucky’s going to be out until late, and Tony – he’s ill. There’s no rescue there. He needs to get out of this himself. 

“We will start again,” Zola says as he gets up and starts to pace the small apartment. “Where is my son?”

“Not here.”

For the first time, Zola scans the apartment, really looks at it. The state it is in. The tablecloth, the dirty napkins, the dirty dishes that still remain on the table, the decorations. The pile of discarded toys in a box near the door. He walks to the bedroom and disappears and then comes back. He’s a scientist. He’s bound to put two and two together. 

“Where is your amputee friend?”

“Not here.” Steve tries to twist his wrists around to get the bindings to loosen. 

Zola goes back into the bedroom and Steve hears him flipping around the bed linens. He finds the lube and the package of condoms. Marching back into the living room, Zola throws the items on the table he asks, “Are you a prostitute? Is that it? You let men come up here and fuck you. You have my son and you let men fuck you in front of him.”

Steve chuckles. “You’re deluded.”

Seizing the front of Steve’s t-shirt, Zola shakes him and yells, “What have you done with my son?”

“He’s not here.” The next punch goes to Steve gut and it knocks out what little air there is in his lungs. He wheezes in a breath as he hunches over. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t have him.” Not here at least, not right now, but Steve eats the rest of the sentence to protect Ian.

“I know he’s not here. I can tell you use this as your place of business. You’re a slut. A whore.”

Steve glances up at him. “I wish. Look at me. Be sensible. You’re a scientist. How do you add two plus two and come up with 43?” He sniffles as blood and snot mixes and smears over his upper lip. 

“Then what are you doing here? Do you want me to fuck you? Is that what this is?” Zola hovers over him. “If I fuck you, will you give me my son?”

Steve barks out a laugh as Zola releases him. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Where is my son?” he screams.

“He isn’t here. I took him and hid him faraway. So far away, you’ll never find him.”

Zola goes to the counter and picks up Steve’s phone. “I know you are lying. That Carter woman contacted you about my son. You still have him. Where is he?”

“Like I said. Far away from here. You’ll never find him. He’s gone. Sharon knows it.” Steve straightens his already pained shoulders. He cringes but keeps the agony out of his voice. “You made a mistake, you know. A big one.”

“They will never find your body,” Zola hisses. “It will look like one of your customers fucked you and then killed you.” He throws the phone across the room and it hits the wall and falls to the floor. “I will make sure that they will know you were a whore and you died because of it. They will be happy to give me back my son.”

“Nothing is farther from the truth, Zola.” He shakes his head in mock pity.  
Seconds tick by as Zola stands to the side, breathing in heavy pants. It drives Steve to near insanity because his breathing pattern constricts Steve’s chest in some kind of weird mimicry. He stifles his own breath to stop reflecting Zola’s panting. 

“In school I loved anatomy. Did I tell you that?” Zola whispers. His voice rasps the air. “I love to cut apart the corpses and wonder what they would do if they were alive. I wondered if I could make them stay alive and awake, and if they’d scream while I was taking them apart.”

“Nice. You’re a dream dad,” Steve snaps.

“If you don’t tell me I will take you apart. I will flay you alive.”

“You’re the model of a cliché evil scientists, aren’t you? Plus you already said that. I heard that you wanted to implant screens into people’s abdomens so what? They could literally navel gaze all day?” Steve spits back. He needs to shut up and concentrate on his bindings. They cut into his skin as he works at them and grow wet with his blood. 

“I need, I need,” Zola mutters more to himself than to Steve. He tugs out his phone and hits dial. “Hello? Yes, can I speak with him? Tell him it’s his client, Zola.” He pauses as he glances at Steve. Another backhand stings across Steve’s face and tears prickle his eyes. Through clenched teeth, Zola whispers, “Stay quiet.”

Steve only rolls his eyes.

Zola gets up and walks to the bedroom. “Yes. Those guards you sent with me left. They’re no good. They left. What?” He curses. “No, I paid you good money. I want my son back. No. I don’t give a shit about the girl. She knows nothing. Nothing at all.”

Steve can’t see Zola since he’s facing in the opposite direction and he’s tied to the chair. His one hand is useless, and swollen, and he’ll never get out of this alive. His mind starts the ever-descending spiral – thinking about Ian, losing another loved one. Thinking about Bucky. How will he survive this too after the horrors of war? Finally, settling on Tony who he only just fell in love with him and is so frail and broken right now. 

He only has one hope – and that’s to get help. Any help at all. He has to push aside his stubbornness to not ask for help and he needs to do it now. It’s standing up, in a way. It’s standing up to save tomorrow, to save his son, his friend, and his love. He opens his mouth to yell for help just as the door swings open and the second goon, Castle, walks in. He has a sawed off shot gun in his one hand.

Castle focuses on Steve. “He really beat his wife and kids, then killed his wife, and all?” 

Steve clamps his mouth shut but he nods. 

From the bedroom, Zola calls, “Frank, is that you?”

Castle shifts his gaze to the bedroom and then back to Steve. “Tried to kill his daughter and son?”

Steve focuses only on Castle and answers with a nod again, never taking his eyes off of the gun. 

“Frank, it’s about time you came back,” Zola says from the other room. “I’m talking to your boss right now.”

Castle ignores Zola. “He hurt you?”

Steve thinks that’s an odd question since the man participated in the beatings. But he nods a third time. 

“That’s all I need. Zola?” The man smiles and quirks a brow at Steve. “You might want to close your eyes for this one.” He raises the rifle. “This is going to be a little messy.”

_Shit_.

“Close your eyes. It’ll be better that way,” the man instructs and Steve shudders at the thought. The rifle is so close. He’ll be blown away. His chest will be burst open, his insides will splatter. He shivers and closes his eyes as instructed. 

One more time the man says, “Zola!”

The creak of the floorboards tells Steve that Zola enters the living room. “Don’t kill him just yet. I need more information from him, you idiot!”

The explosion detonates in the air. The blast launches Steve backwards and when the chair hits the floor, pain bursts from his injured hand. A chill races through him, but he’s not shot. He’s not dead. He’s very much alive and when he cranks his head to the side he spots Zola lying on the floor with a hole the size of his fist in his chest. His eyes look glossy, but not completely dead. The hollowed, creeping sensation of life dissipating quakes through Steve. The moment etches in Steve’s brain like a laser knife scorched it there. 

Castle walks over to Steve, grabbing his elbow, hoisting him and the chair up. Steve chokes a little and Castle frowns. “I told you not to look.”

“I was in the Army, I’ve seen worse.”

“Sure you were,” Castle says and pulls out a knife. Steve jerks and Castle shakes his head. “What, you think I came all this way to shoot him and stab you?” With the knife he slices through the bindings. “Come on, we have to get out of here.”

“We have to call the police,” Steve says as he rubs his right hand. Even touching it hurts. He cannot imagine being able to do art again. Pushing that thought aside he looks up at his one time captor and now savior. “Why’d you come back?”

Staring at the lifeless body of Zola, Castle says, “My family. They were killed in front of me. It changed me. How could he do that? How could he kill own his wife? Hurt his own children?” Castle levels the rifle at the corpse again but Steve lurches up and grabs the mutated barrel. 

“No, just no. You saved me. So, thank you,” Steve says. “He was on the phone with someone. Do you know who hired you?”

“His lawyer. We were supposed to go and look for his daughter. He told us she killed her mother,” Castle says and his voice quavers. “How could he do that?”

Steve gently takes the gun away and lays it on the table. “I’m calling the police. You have nothing to fear. You saved me.”

Castle only slumps down onto the threadbare couch. He stares absently at the wall as Steve hurries to check his phone. It’s still working, no worse for wear. Several messages from Sharon scroll past, but Steve opens the phone to call in to emergency personal. 

By the time they arrive, Steve’s found out that the man’s name is Frank Castle. He’s a war veteran too, with severe PTSD. His family was killed some time ago that led Castle into the darker side of life in New York City, especially Hell’s Kitchen. Police and paramedics swarm the apartment. Steve finally gets Bucky on the phone and tells him what happened, making sure to say that Bucky should stay put. Getting his new prosthetic arm is more important. 

“No, I’m fine. The paramedics are here. You don’t have to come.”

“I’m gonna kill him dead. You know that I’m gonna kill him dead,” Bucky rages over the connection.

“He’s already dead. The hole through his chest kind of did him in already. But you’re welcome to spit on him anytime you want,” Steve says, and he’s so exhausted all the sudden he could literally fall over. “Anyhow, Buck, I gotta go. The police want to ask some more questions.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just hits the disconnect. He lays his head back against the wall. He’s been sitting on the floor as the commotion swarms around him. 

At one point a blind man that Steve’s never seen before comes into the room and asks where Frank Castle is. Steve helps direct him and then tumbles onto the couch next to Castle. He thinks he might just go to sleep. 

“Oh no you don’t,” a voice whispers above him. “Let’s check you out, Mister Rogers.”

Steve giggles. “It’s a wonderful day in the neighborhood.” 

“That’s what they all say,” the woman says and Steve peels his eyes open. The woman smiles at him. “We need to take you to the hospital.”

“I can’t afford the hospital.” Or can he? He can’t remember. Which is the dream and which is the reality? “I’m going out with Tony Stark.” He feels a little drunk. Like his brain isn’t getting quite enough oxygen.

“Oh really?” She says. She stands up and cradles his shoulders as someone else takes his feet. “One, two.” And he’s moved onto a gurney. “Off we go.”

“Whatever you say. I have to finish cleaning up the puke.” The gurney is rolled past the cooling corpse of Zola. Steve grimaces as he sees the large wine-dark puddle of blood around him. “Never getting my deposit back.” He wishes he would have said thank you to Frank Castle. Maybe someday he will.

“No, I don’t think you will,” the paramedic says and the gurney is pushed out of the door. Steve doesn’t remember the trip down the flights of stairs or the very expensive ride to the hospital. Nor does he remember going into surgery for his hand. All he remembers is the sudden and absolute chill of being alone. It feels like ice encasing him and he shivers as the despair wraps its icy arms around him. 

Groggy and tired, he wakes up and finds he’s in the last place he wants to be, the place he hates to be: the hospital. He groans and there’s a hand on his shoulder and a soft voice speaking to him.

“Don’t jar your hand too much. The surgeon spent six hours piecing it back together again once they got the swelling down.” 

He doesn’t immediately recognize the voice but then he moans about surgery and how he doesn’t remember any surgery.

“Course you don’t, you punk. You know you could have died? You nearly killed yourself this time,” Bucky says as Steve pries his eyes open to see his friend sitting at the side of his hospital bed, scowling at him. “And you told me you were fine.”

“Little asthma attack,” Steve says and his throat hurts. 

“You went cyanotic, you fool,” Bucky says as he stands up and brings over a Styrofoam cup. “You can’t do that with your heart, you know. Here. Drink this.”

Steve does and it’s cold. “It’s too cold.”

“I don’t give a crap. You were nearly dead. Zola came after you, or don’t you remember that? How the hell did you shoot him?” Bucky places the cup on the tray table.

“No, no,” Steve replies and it aches to talk. He’s not looking at his hand. What’s the point? Looking at it will only make it true. As long as he doesn’t look he can still be an artist. “One of the attackers, Frank Castle, did it. Had a change of heart. His lawyer, blind guy, was there.”

“You hallucinate a lot of crap when you’re dying,” Bucky says and sighs. “God, Steve, you nearly did me in this time. Ian’s a basket case. And Tony-.”

Steve tries to sit up on the inclined bed, but the ache in his hand stops him. He moans with the pain. Through it he worries about Tony. “What about Tony? What happened to Tony?”

Bucky puts a hand on Steve’s chest and lightly pushes him back onto the bed. “Stay put.” He takes pity on Steve. “Tony’s fine. He’s doing good now I should say, but when he heard what happened and that you were in the hospital.” He shakes his head. “He went ballistic.”

“He’s okay, right?” Steve will never forgive himself if Tony relapsed because of him. “His heart.”

“Is fine, like I told you,” Bucky says. “He was in here all day. Pepper came by and dragged his ass to rest. Doctor won’t let him come back.”

Steve closes his eyes and the stress, the anxiety, builds up until he needs to breathe it out. It’s like a red tide, poisonous and suffocating. He inhales and exhales. Measured breaths. 

“You okay?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods. “I will be.”

“Well, the police have been loitering all day. They want to talk to you.” Bucky indicates with a head tilt over his shoulder. “You want I can put them off. Tell them you’re still asleep or something.”

“No, it’s okay.” Steve’s used to dealing with life from a hospital bed. “I can talk to them.”

Bucky pauses before he leaves. “You really scared me this time, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Buck. I really only went to clean the apartment, not to die.” He tries for light and snarky but it falls flat.

Bucky only presses his lips into a tight line and then leaves the hospital room to go and get the police officers. They enter the room and for the next hour Steve recounts what happened and answers all of their questions to the best of his abilities. They are stuck on why Frank Castle didn’t call the police instead of sorting out the situation by himself. Steve can’t answer that.

“I don’t know. He seemed pretty disturbed by the fact Zola killed his wife.” 

The older cop with the ruddy cheeks and balding head says, “There’s no place in the city for vigilantism, you know.”

“I know that. I didn’t really have a choice, considering I was beaten and tied up at the time. If it hadn’t been for him having a change of heart, I would probably be dead now and my son kidnapped.” He bites his lip. He shouldn’t antagonize a cop from a hospital bed. 

The cop glares at him but doesn’t disagree. “Okay. I just wanted to make sure your story matched up Castle’s.”

“And does it?”

The cop only frowned and then excused himself and they left. 

No one had told him how much time had passed. He hates being in the hospital, tied to the bed, looking at the white board with the on-duty RN’s name and the technician that will frequently come in and check on him. He hates the scratch of the sheets, the thinness of the mattress, the taste of the food. Even the water smells funny. Without much effort his injuries and weakened body succumbs to slumber again.

When he wakes up, it is Sam sitting by his bed and he has his phone playing Marvin Gaye in the background. Steve smiles. “Trouble Man?”

“Well, I figured you might just be the poster boy for it these days,” Sam says and stands up. He folds the newspaper he was reading and drops it on the chair. “How you feeling?”

“Like a truck ran over me, backed up, and ran over me again.”

“That good?” Sam smiles. “Well, the good news is that I talked to your social worker.”

“That’s the good news? There must be some really bad news coming,” Steve says and licks his dry lips. Sam gets the water and pours him a fresh cup. Steve drinks it down and realizes he’s hungry. How long has it been? “How long have I been out?”

“It’s Thursday afternoon, so not too long.” 

Steve shifts in the bed, wanting to get out, wanting to just leave. “When can I go home?”

“Whoa, hold your horses. Don’t you want to hear the good news?” Sam says. “Because it is good, I swear it.”

Steve relents. “Sure, go ahead.”

“Since the incident on Tuesday, Sharon has been able to get your paperwork together and submitted. For official adoption,” Sam says with a smile. “Also, it just so happens Jett was at the police station at the same time you were getting the shit kicked out of you. She gave her official statement. Even gave the cops some evidence she had from her phone.”

Steve places a hand on his chest. “That’s so good to hear. She’s all right?” 

“She’s fine. She’s going to stay with her friends, Wanda and Pietro, but would love to hang out with you and Ian, too.” Sam grins and Steve can’t help but smile back.

“That’s so good to hear.” Steve relaxes into the pillows, only just now realizing how much of a weight he’d carried all these months worried about Jett. “So good to hear.” The exhaustion hits him again. “What’s the bad news?”

“Tony-.”

Steve sits up straight, knocking his right hand with its elaborate cast. He flinches and curls over his hand. The pain is brilliant and blinding. “Son of a bitch.”

“What? Are you okay?” Sam says and reaches for the remote to call the nurse. Steve captures his hand.

“No, just tell me what happened to Tony?” Steve says through gritted teeth, cradling his wounded hand. He’s almost too frightened to hear the news. It must be the bad news.

“Seems his doctor won’t let him come anymore. Says it will exhaust him too much. He’s waiting for you at home.” Sam smiles. 

“Fuck, Sam, fuck.” He relaxes as his hand throbs. “I really though-. Fuck.”

“Language,” Sam says.

“Lord, Sam,” Steve mutters.

Sam only chuckles. “It’s going to be okay now. You got that right? Everything’s going to be okay.”

“I suppose,” Steve says as he reclines again. “I suppose. I wanted to see Ian and Tony.” He knows the hospital won’t allow Ian to visit since he’s too young. “At least let me see Tony.”

“He wants to be here,” Sam says. “Bucky said he’s going nuts. He really, really likes you. I mean when I was over there last night. He was beside himself with worry about you.”

“I hope someone calmed him down,” Steve replies. “His heart can’t take that kind of stress.”

Sam studies him and then folds his arms over his chest. “You are one to talk. You do realize your heart nearly gave out the other day, right?”

“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Tony,” Steve insists. He’s sick to death of worrying about his health. He needs to get out of the hospital. Tony needs him. Ian needs him. “I got to get out of here.”

“Slow down, cowboy,” Sam says. “You do realize you aren’t exactly healthy yourself right now.”

“Stop asking me what I realize,” Steve snaps. “I know. I just want-.” He stops and sighs. “God, Sam, I’m sorry. I just want to go home.”

“Well, the docs are saying tomorrow. So you don’t have long to wait. They just want to be sure you have decent pulmonary function. Notice how I said decent and not good, because your lungs kind of suck it right now,” Sam replies.

“Don’t they always?” Steve says and the weight that presses down eases a bit. He doesn’t feel quite like Sisyphus.

Sam studies him and then says, “Just do me a favor. Let the rest of us take care of things for once. Okay?”

Steve bobs his head. “Okay. I’ll try.” It is good news overall. Steve has to admit. The adoption is underway. Jett is safe with Wanda and Pietro right now. They are older, probably in their twenties so if Jett wants them as her guardian they might be able to swing it. Otherwise, Steve will handle it. And Tony, Tony is okay. He’s rattled – that’s all. At least, that’s what Steve tells himself as he considers the reports on Tony. 

While getting ready to leave the hospital the next day, he struggles to dress because of his hand injury. The doctor visits him instructing him to rest his hand and that he will need extensive physical therapy. 

“I’ve done outstanding work on your hand. Thank your employer Mister Stark for ensuring I was called to do the surgery. Now you must do your part,” Doctor Strange says. His gaze is intense and intimidating. Steve’s never been one to shy away from doctors.

What the hell kind of name is Strange anyhow. Lord, he’s been hanging around Bucky too much. “Yes, I will.”

“Do you know a good physical therapist?”

He thinks of Clint. With a shrug he says, “I do.”

“That sounds like a question.”

“It was an answer,” Steve retorts. “Can I go now?”

The doctor considers him but then with a roll of the eyes dismisses Steve. Steve cocks an eyebrow at the doctor. They are in _his_ hospital room. It’s not like Steve’s going anywhere without getting dressed and receiving his final release instructions. He knows the drill. 

“Oh, oh yes,” Strange says. “Take care of that hand. It’s some of my best work.” The doctor leaves and Steve looks down at the cast. He finishes getting dressed. When Bucky arrives to shuttle him home, Steve asks his friend to help him shave. Bucky’s done it enough that they know how to do this without much discussion. Just like Steve taking care of Bucky’s stump, Bucky has always been there for Steve when he’s sick. 

They’ve adjusted the routine a little for Bucky’s handicap but now with the prosthetic, Steve doesn’t have to do as much as Bucky cleans his face. As Bucky finishes up, Steve says, “You’re getting pretty good with the prosthetic.”

“Yeah, Clint’s really great. He’s a hard ass sometimes when I don’t do my exercises, but he really has a knack for it,” Bucky says and wipes Steve’s face. “You’re all done.”

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve says. “I really don’t know how you manage. Can you help me get my arm in the sling?” He glances at his hand again, but then looks away. Facing the future without the ability to draw, to paint feels worse than any of the punches to the gut he took. 

“Hey, hey, you’ll get there,” Bucky says and slings an arm over Steve’s shoulders. “We’ll get there together. Like always. We can have physical therapy contests.”

“Oh yeah?” He slips on the sling and Bucky reaches up to adjust it. His deftness with the prosthesis is kind of amazing to Steve.

“Yeah.” Bucky finishes up. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Back home,” Steve says and there’s a weariness to it. “God, I have to deal with being sick again.”

“Well, don’t think of it that way, think of it as you get to recuperate in the lap of luxury.” Bucky raises his prosthetic hand and waves it into the air. “Wait until you see all the futuristic crap Tony’s been building. I mean my robotic arm will be able to act as my cell phone.”

“Bucky, you shouldn’t drink before noon, you know,” Steve says with a chuckle. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“I’m with you,” Bucky says. He doesn’t much like hospitals either. A combination of having to watch Steve in too many over the years and then his own stint in the Army hospital didn’t help matters at all. 

It turns out they are shuttled home by a limo provided by Tony. Bucky only shrugs when Steve questions him about it. “Who am I to say no to a free ride?” It’s strange to Steve how much Bucky’s turned around about Tony. He’s thankful for it.

Steve doesn’t argue. Instead he waits out the ride. It’s raining and cold, unseasonably chilly in August. He has to admit, he’s looking forward to being home, having Ian snuggled by his side, and possibly Tony on the other side. Finally at the Tower, Steve gets to the bank of elevators intending to go to his floor. Instead, Bucky steers him to the private elevator to the penthouse.

“Ian’s been entertaining Tony for the last day or so.” Bucky looks like he’s the Cat in the Hat. Steve knows that story and what went wrong. He doesn’t want to imagine that happening to Tony.

Steve nearly swallows his tongue. He gulps and says, “Really?”

“Yeah, apparently the kid has an aptitude.” Bucky snickers.

“An aptitude for what?” Steve asks.

Bucky smirks. “For whatever. I don’t know. He’s been running around up there and having a blast.” He stares up at the floor numbers as they flicker by.

Steve narrows his eyes at Bucky. “You didn’t dump him so that you and Nat could-.”

“For god sake, Steve, no.” Bucky scowls and Steve want to apologize but the doors open and the butler, Jarvis, greets them.

“Very good,” Jarvis says. “Mister Stark has been anxiously awaiting your return, Captain Rogers.” 

Steve smiles and thanks Jarvis. He clutches his bag of medicines and walks out of the elevator car looking for his son. Bucky follows him. Even though he’s been to the penthouse on a few occasions, it’s still overwhelming for him. His roots are meager at best and when he thinks about where he is – it paralyzes him in some ways. 

He hears a shriek and has a second to prepare himself as Ian bolts out of the kitchen and barrels into him. He throws himself at Steve, causing him to stagger but both Bucky and Jarvis are there to ensure that they don’t topple to the floor. 

“Dadda, Dadda,” Ian cries, and he’s sobbing into Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve’s on one knee and gathers Ian in his arm, his one hand still in the sling is pressed against his abdomen. “I’m okay. Everything’s okay.” He should have insisted that the hospital allow Ian as a visitor but he’d been terrified that it would only upset Ian more to see Steve in the bed, hooked up to machines.

Ian breaks away from Steve but tears still stain his face. He hiccups as he speaks, “Didn-didn’t tell me. B-but it w-was him. Wasn’t it?”

Steve glances up at Bucky whose face has drained of all color. Steve brushes away the tears. “It doesn’t matter now. He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

“They took him to jail?”

Steve sighs and brings Ian close, kissing his forehead. “He’s gone, Ian. He’s gone.” Another day they’ll tackle the death of his biological father, but right now – right now, Steve just wants to hold his son and know that all is right with the world.

Ian shifts and lays his head on Steve’s shoulder. “I’m glad. Is that wrong?”

“No, Ian, you deserve to be happy and free and not scared. It’s okay,” Steve whispers and knows that will transform Ian. He’ll need more counseling and therapy. There’s a long road ahead of them. 

“Come on, Buddy,” Bucky says. “Let’s go show him what you’ve been working on with Tony.”

This brightens Ian’s spirits as he jumps away from Steve and claps his hands. “Robots!”

Steve gets up from his crouched position with a little help from Bucky. The penthouse has an open view New York City from the main living space, but Steve always found it less than welcoming. He finds it doubly so when Tony is nowhere to be found. Bucky only snickers and Ian grabs Steve’s hand.

“Down in the workshop!” Ian says and there’s no sign of his distress as he tugs Steve along toward the access hallway and the stairwell. The stairs aren’t utilitarian but spiral and metal and worked into a piece of art that glimmers and shines in the daylight from the windows. Steve follows Ian along with only a secondary glance behind him to see Bucky smiling as if he is the Cheshire Cat. But then again, Bucky always has a tendency to look that way.

Tentatively, Steve descends the staircase, feeling as if he’s intruding in areas of Tony’s home that he hasn’t been truly invited to see. The staircase ends at a glass partition that looks into a vast workshop that reminds Steve of his high school days in shop class, except this shop class might have been maintained by NASA. The glass doors in the partition open and Steve only mouths ‘wow’ as Bucky laughs. 

The whole of the back wall is windows to the glittering cityscape below but that’s nothing in comparison to the different machines, lays and table saws, and computer consoles and 3D printers. Steve fails to identify them all. There’s a clatter and a curse and then Tony stands up from a corner next to a tall machine that houses what looks like an iron man with wires streaming out of its chest. Tony’s hair is in disarray and there’s grease on his face but he looks marvelously healthy.

“Tony,” Steve says and just stands there in a kind of awe.

Tony beams and drops his tools. “God damn it.” He skips over the wires and tools strewn over the floor and rushes to Steve. There’s no delay, there’s no hesitation. He seizes Steve in his arms and embraces him. “God, I was worried. They wouldn’t let me out of the Tower. They said I had to stay in bed. I just couldn’t go to see you. God, I was worried. Worried out of my mind.”

“Tony, I-.” And there’s nothing to be said because the next moment, Tony cups Steve’s face in his hands and the kiss that comes next sweeps Steve away, steals him from the moment the flings him into the future. Their happiness is wrapped around this kiss and so many others. Their hopes and dreams grow out of their faith and love for one another. There’s so much given to him at that moment that Steve knows, knows that the rest of his life is sealed by it. Sealed and delivered to him. He’s given something he never thought he could have, never really hoped for. He’s given the wish of a happily ever after. 

When Tony parts from him, they both pant. Foreheads touching. Steve curls his hand at the back of Tony’s neck. “Tony.”

“Steve,” Tony replies and that’s all that’s needed because he knows, he understands what Tony wants to say. How the concern and worry gets tangled up and leaves the words dried up and dead in his mouth. How there’s no way to express the relief, the anger, the hope, and the empathy all at once. They hang onto one another for endless minutes until Bucky clears his throat and Ian starts swinging on the wires to the iron man.

“Hey, hey,” Tony says as he turns to Ian. “We said not to do that.” Ian listens and stops his acrobatics.

“It’s a robot, Dadda!” Ian shows it to Steve as if he built it himself.

“Is it now?” Steve says and eyes Tony. Tony gives him a half shrug to indicate that the boy’s kind of right. “A robot, great. I thought you were supposed to be resting?” 

Tony’s color heightens but he says, “I was bored and Pepper released me from the confines of my bed as long as I promised to not leave the Tower. She didn’t say I couldn’t play around in the workshop.”

“Making robots?” Steve says as he studies the metal armored chest plate. “That’s pretty impressive.” He touches the glowing circle in the center of the robot.

“It will be, eventually. Like I said I work in AI mainly, but interfacing with a robot might be a great next step. I’m working on miniaturizing the energy source and making the movements more fluid, graceful,” Tony says as he appraises his creation.

“So now you’re creating an iron man robot?” Steve says. 

“Maybe a little?” The glint in Tony’s eyes positively enchants Steve and all he can whispers is a quick wow before Tony kisses him again. It’s like that for the rest of the day. They hang onto one another, supporting one another. Steve glimpses the rest of his life. 

It’s long into the evening before they get any time alone. Steve feels he’s listing, tired and in pain. With Ian, Bucky, and Nat as well as Pepper and Rhodes – they have to wait until the night finishes and beg off with exhaustion to be allowed to go to the bedroom and be alone. Before they leave, hand in hand, Pepper reminds Tony that he’s to rest and not anything else. Steve promises and then asks Bucky to check in on Ian who is sleeping in a new room in the penthouse apartment. Bucky salutes him before Steve and Tony head to the master suite.

In actuality, exhaustion hits Steve and he doesn’t pay much attention to the luxury around him. His hand throbs in the cast, and all he wants to do is fall asleep. With a cursory glance he notes the high vaulted ceilings, the lounge area, the bar, the white stone fireplace of Tony’s bedroom along with the marble in the bathroom suite. Falling into bed is all he can think about – other than holding Tony. When they do finally climb into bed, each stripped down to their boxers and t-shirts, Steve’s certain he might just go right to sleep. But that’s not the case. Instead, as soon as his head hits the pillow, the reality of the day energizes him and he lies there with Tony spooned up to him, quietly resting.

After long minutes of silence, Tony says, “You’re not sleeping.”

“No, not yet.” He moves a little, adjusting the pillow, trying to ease his aching hand.

“Your hand still hurt? Do you need something for it?”

Steve indicates no. “Took something already.” It should put him to sleep, so why is he so awake?

Tony’s hand lays on Steve’s abdomen and he moves it, just slightly bringing Steve closer. “What is it?”

Steve only pushes his head deeper into the pillow. His thoughts are vague and hard to pin down like the dust motes. Always there, but never clear. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re thinking about us, about how we’re damaged goods.”

Steve cranks his neck to peer at Tony. The light from the window dapples the room but leaves Tony in shadows. “We’re not damaged goods, Tony. I told you that.”

“It feels like that, doesn’t it?” Tony sits up. The action cools the space between them and Steve mourns the loss. “It does.”

“No,” Steve says and pushes himself to sit alongside Tony. “Life kind of happened to us. I’ve been dealing with the shit end of the stick for ages.”

“That’s a way to put it,” Tony says and presses a hand on his chest.

“It really sucks,” Steve says and he stares down at his hand in the cast. “It’s not what I wanted, not this.” He raises up his hand. “But I’ve been through it all, all the time. I know you can choose to let it defeat you or you can fight. I’ve always done the latter.”

“Maybe you’re stronger than me.”

Steve huffs out a breath. “No, I’m just used to it.” He inches his hand over to Tony’s hand and then grasps it. “We’re stronger together. We’re not broken or damaged. Just different.”

“You’re so optimistic.” His eyes are shadows of darkness.

“Maybe, but it’s kind of how I grew up,” Steve says. “We can do this together, Tony.” He knows they can, they’ve only been together a short while and Steve already feels stronger, doesn’t quite feel the sting of the damage to his hand as potently as he would have alone. “Together. We’ll do this together.”

Tony bows his head and, for long quiet moments, doesn’t look up. When he does, Steve glimpses something unspoken between them, something weighted and waiting to be voiced but ever present and hopeful. 

Steve pulls Tony back to the bed. “Let’s go to sleep.” Tony nods into Steve’s shoulder. “Recuperating and recovery isn’t just about getting back what you had, Tony. Part of it is discovering who you are now.”

“What if I don’t like that person?” Tony says and there’s a shiver that runs through him.

“That’s impossible. I like you too much for that,” Steve whispers.

“Yeah?”

Steve smiles. “Yeah.”

It’s a long haul. Even in officer training camp, Steve doesn’t think he shouldered so much weight during the long runs and obstacle courses demanded by the military service. The heart attack strips Tony of his confidence, wears him down. Throughout the next weeks, Steve falls into bed bushed, not only from his own recovery but also from trying to shore up Tony’s confidence and will to move forward and think about the future. Tony clings to him at night but during the day he’s arrogant and belittling to just about everyone. He puts on his tabloid face. It amazes Steve sometimes, because Tony’s able to move through the day, quick and smart, not showing his inner pain. He even sends money to Castle for his defense. With Steve’s positive testimony it looks like Castle won’t get any jail time. It symbolizes how well Tony navigates the outside world while Steve watches him slowly disintegrate inside.

By the end of the month, just about everyone in Tony’s inner circle wants to bite his head off. He’s acting like the spoiled little rich boy while at the same time curling around Steve at night, quietly crying that his dreams are dead. They aren’t – not by a long shot. Tony’s revolutionized not only AI but robotics in the short time since his heart attack. The R & D sector of his company ends up stunned by his progress. Tony’s flying high on the need to get things done because he fears his time is short.

He even asks Steve to marry him one night through the tears. Steve only tells him to sleep and doesn’t answer. The next day Tony is remote and quiet, but in short order he morphs into the haughty conceited boss again.

It’s Pepper who corners Steve in the storage closet while he’s going over inventory for the Met Wing. “Well, are you going to do something about him?”

“What? I mean, what are you talking about?” Steve says. He has a tablet cradled against his cast as he works through the spreadsheet and the inventory. 

“Tony. He hasn’t been this bad since his parents died. You need to do something before he completely breaks down.” While her voice reprimands, her whole body language screams concern and fear. She’s playing with her hair – she never plays with her hair.

He sets the tablet down on a shelf. “Ms. Potts.”

“Pepper, for the last time – it’s Pepper.”

“Pepper, Tony has to work through this on his own,” Steve says. “I’ve given him the tools. He needs to find a way to accept that he’s not some super hero. You know, he blames himself that he wasn’t there to save me from Zola. That some strange guy off the streets did it. He blames himself. How does that work? He just had a heart attack.”

“He’s so irrational.”

“Tony has this idea that he needs to save the world or something,” Steve says. “I get that. I understand that on so many levels. But we have to work with the tools that are given to us. I was born this way. Kind of broken. There’s no magic formula anywhere that’s going to cure all of my ailments. But it still doesn’t stop me. I tried to tell this to him-.”

“Did you ever hear the old adage, show don’t tell?” Pepper chimes in. 

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “But I don’t get what you mean.”

“Tony needs to know he’s worth it. You can tell him a million times, but he needs to know that he’s worth it by action.” She shrugs. “If you can’t get through to him, no one can.” She leaves the storage closet then and Steve’s left with a whole lot of information but little ability to do anything. 

Should he put himself in mortal danger and have Tony come and save him? That seems a little melodramatic and incredibly stupid. He could whine and complain a lot and hope that Tony sees how ridiculous it is – but that just seems cruel.

But what else are his options?

He used to be a great planner, a strategist for the Army, but life somehow manages to ruin his plans and dry up his ideas every single time. He’s not sure that his talents to plan out strategies actually work for human emotions. After a few weeks of total failure, Steve is saved not by Pepper or Bucky or Sam. Ian saves him. It’s not something that Steve would have hoped for but it ends up working.

Tony takes to sleeping with Steve every night, even if it means sleeping in Steve’s apartment. It’s odd, but Steve doesn’t argue. They can’t do anything other than sleep and cuddle because the doctor hasn’t given Tony clearance yet. Tony drops off to sleep rapidly, and Steve lies there worried. His hand is still in the cast and it alternates between aching and itching. As he considers whether he’ll be an artist again, a noise catches his attention. He waits to see if it repeats, and then he hears the tiny cry of his son. Bolting upright, Steve jostles and mistakenly awakens Tony. 

“Wh-what?”

“I think it’s Ian,” Steve whispers. A cry calls out. “Yeah.” Climbing out of bed, he says, “Stay here. Get some sleep.”

“No, no, I’ll come, too,” Tony says and slips out of bed. He follows Steve down the hallway through the living room and to the other side of the apartment to Ian’s bedroom. 

Ian’s sitting up in bed, quietly weeping into his stuffed toy. Steve enters the room. “Hey, hey.” He sits on the bed. “What’s this?” He hugs his son as Tony hangs in the doorway. 

In a half cry, Ian says, “I had a dream.”

“Yeah?” Steve rubs his shoulder. “A bad one, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah. He came back and he tried to hurt you again,” Ian says and tears streak his face. “What if he’s not dead? What if he comes back and he hurts you more?”

Steve’s not exactly sure how Ian figured it out the whole story because he’s tried to keep out all of the details. He’s not even sure how his little one figured out that Zola was dead. “He’s not coming back. It’s not going to happen. You’re safe now.”

Ian shakes his head and chews a bit on the ear of the stuffed rabbit. “He can come back.” Then Ian looks up at Tony. His son’s gaze seeks understanding and help. “You’d help Dadda, wouldn’t you? With your iron man? Your robot could protect him, right?”

Tony eases into the room and settles on the bed next to Ian. “I would do anything to protect your Dadda.”

“Really? You would?” His eyes are luminous; his innocence pure and encompassing.

“Anything at all,” Tony says. “Anything to protect you both.”

“And Jett?”

“And Jett,” Tony says and smiles. Something changes about Tony, right in front of Steve. The tension that held his shoulders too tight, the crease in his forehead, the darting of his eyes – everything transforms. Instead of looking like a stranger in his own body, an alien trapped, he accepts himself. He fits into his body and becomes something more than the Tony balancing on a wire waiting for death to take him. “I’m gonna be there for your Dadda, for you, for Jett, for all of you. That’s what you do for someone-.”

“For family?” Ian asks and his eyes are wide and hopeful.

“Yeah, for family.”

Tony glances over at Steve. The dim lamplight on Ian’s nightstand throws Tony in shadow, yet Steve sees the glint, the reflection of a smile on his face. “For family,” Steve agrees.

They get Ian tucked back into bed and wait for him to fall back to sleep before they both shuffle back to the master bedroom. Tony sits down on the bed with his back toward Steve. As Steve lies down, Tony turns to him and says, “I have to tell you something.”

“What’s that?” They are in the dark again with only a glimmer of light from the windows casting across the room. Steve folds his one arm under his head.

“I wasn’t going to say family.”

Steve stops and holds his breath before he releases it and says, “Oh.” He’s not sure if he should feel disappointed or angry.

“I was going to say that’s what you do for someone you love.”

Now he can’t breathe at all. “I’m not sure what you mean.” It’s all he can manage and he admits that it is a crappy reply to a revelation pinned on love, but no one has ever said anything like that to Steve before – not in this way. They’d whispered about love when they were in the midst of sex – but that’s different. This is more profound, more meaningful in a way.

Tony reaches across the bed and grasps Steve’s hand that’s still in the cast. “I would do it for you. I would build an iron man and I would wear it like armor and I would fight every fight to keep you safe because I love you.”

It can’t be. It’s not possible. It’s not logical. Because it’s everything that Steve wants and there’s no way that he should get this. It just doesn’t add up to him. He’s glad he has a cast on, otherwise Tony would feel the shiver running through him. “That’s, that’s not possible.”

“What? That I can build an iron man? Or that I would defend you and your family? Or that I love you? Because I can build anything I want, I am an engineer and a damned good one. I also could defend you with it. I’m pretty sure I could rig it up to have an AI to run it or I could wear it and shut anyone down that might try and hurt you or yours again. So you can’t be questioning that.” Tony stops. He leans over and turns on the light. “Tell me you’re not questioning that I love you.”

Steve pushes up and sits as well. “It’s not- Tony, no one’s ever said that to me outside my mother and Bucky. And I don’t think you mean it that way, like they did, anyhow. Plus we don’t know each other all that much.”

“We do. I do. And I love you, Steve. I do. Look at you. You’re sitting here with me. I’m broken. You’re waiting for me. You aren’t scared of what the future might hold because of this,” Tony says as he touches his chest. “You’re a dedicated father, and a sassy, smart aleck employee. You’re talented and smart and fucking beautiful to boot. I couldn’t ask for anything more. I love you. Now tell me, am I wrong? Am I wrong because I think it’s a mutual thing?”

Steve looks down at Tony’s hand resting on his cast. He doesn’t have anything to lose. For once, the world has been presented to him and it’s free of charge. He’s never wanted something so much in his life. He reaches over and puts his left hand onto Tony’s. “I think, I think you’re right, Tony. I love you. I think it’s crazy early, but sometimes -.”

“Sometimes you just know,” Tony says. They hold onto one another through the night and Steve feels Tony relax and relent. He doesn’t surrender, but simply accepts his new normal. A normal doesn’t have to be typical. It only has to be owned and understood.

A long time ago Steve learned that healing and recovery aren’t necessarily always positive in their aspects. Healing and recovery come in fits and starts. Blockages and holes in the road happen. Falling down one of those potholes leads to oblivion and very often starting over again. Steve’s been there. He’s done that. He’ll do it again and again. If he has to take Tony firmly by the hand and lead him down the road to recovery and help him expertly steer around the potholes he’ll do that. Being loved, being someone loved, brings his dedication and devotion to a whole new level. He forgets about his own fears, his own terror that he may never be the artist he was or hoped to be. 

It all comes back, though, the day that Steve gets his cast cut off. As he stares at his shriveled pale hand resting on the exam chair arm, the dread of doubt and fear drops in his gut until it burns deep and gnawing. The doctor talks about physical therapy. The nurse smiles. Steve pretends everything is fine. He goes home and enters his studio. There are paintings and sketches littering the place. It’s like he’s visiting a display of who he used to be. The memory of a booted foot crunching his bones echoes in the place. He swallows down the bile. He tries to remember everything Tony and Ian and Bucky and everyone has been to him. But the truth spiral speaks to him. He cannot deny the words. His hand aches in the sling. It creaks like a door that hasn’t been open in ages and that whines its protest when finally swung ajar.

“Damaged goods.” He cannot help but repeat Tony’s words. He’d gone to the doctor without anyone. Hadn’t told anyone that his appointment to remove the cast was today. He wanted to face the truth of it alone. He’s been through it so many times before in his life. From his asthma to his weak heart – he knows the drill. He thought he could weather it like every other storm system. It should be easy. Hell, how many times did his mother have to hear that Steve might not make it through the night when he was a child?

Yet, he finds himself collapsed against the wall, on the floor, knees up, and sling torn away. He wanted to be an artist all his life. He took detours. Sure. But he always thought he would have enough time. He always hoped there would be enough time. Why?

People think of time as a commodity. But it doesn’t even really exist. Not truly. It’s a construct of the human mind. The present is existence. He’s not an artist now. So he never was and never will be. Weakness pervades his hand; he can hardly squeeze it into a ball. The doctor said months of therapy. He looks away from his hand, embarrassed to feel pity for himself after what Bucky’s been through, after seeing Tony suffer a heart attack. 

He needs to stand up, and face it, and put away his fears. He does manage to get to his feet. As he attempts to gather the strength to move, to face his reality, a voice calls out his name. He cringes. 

“Steve?”

It’s Tony. 

Steve wipes at his face and goes to the table next to his abandoned canvas. Maybe Tony won’t look in the studio. Maybe he’ll pass it by as he searches for Steve. It’s not some place that Tony normally finds Steve these days anyhow.

“Steve?” Tony calls, and Steve bites his lip and closes his eyes. The voice gets closer. “Steve? There you are.”

Steve releases his breath. Without turning, he asks, “Yeah? What’s up?”

“I thought we were going to take Ian out today. You know, big day to meet with Jett.”

That’s right. Tony hasn’t met Jett yet and Ian’s anxious to see his sister after so long. They are all meeting for dinner. Steve glances at his watch. “It’s only one. We have plenty of time.”

“Well,” Tony says and sidles up to Steve. He’s standing behind him, nearly touching him. “I have some good news.” He kind of sing songs the last part.

“Yeah?” Steve says and only partially peers over his shoulder at Tony. He doesn’t want Tony to see him, because he’s not sure he can keep the shame from twisting his expression.

“Yeah,” Tony says and places his hands on Steve’s shoulders. His hands rub and then slowly caress downward. “I got the all clear today. Ian’s out with Jocasta. Bucky and Nat are at work. We have some time all alone.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He wasn’t expecting that – not so soon. “I-.”

Tony’s hands still. “Unless, unless you’re not interested?” That hesitation, that fear in Tony’s voice turns Steve around to face him. As soon as he does, Tony glimpses Steve’s expression and there’s no holding back. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Steve steps away, shaking his head. He shouldn’t lay his burden on Tony’s shoulders. “It’s nothing. Really.” He raises his hand to push away his hair from his face. It’s a motion that he’s done a thousand times, but his hand trembles as he touches his hair.

“Your cast. You got it off.”

“Yeah,” Steve says and grits his teeth. He drops his hand, trying to conceal it.

“That’s not good?” Tony asks and he leans in trying to get a look at Steve’s face as he bows his head.

Steve inhales and then tries to shake off the feeling, the self-pity. “I’m sorry. I just don’t – I can’t talk about this right now.”

“No, no,” Tony says and catches Steve before he can move to escape. “No, you’re not going to do that. You were there for me. You still are. I’m here for you. You don’t have to be stoic and eat up all those feelings. I know what’s happening here. I’m a genius, you know.”

Steve’s anger flashes and it boils over. “Well, out of course you figured it out. Me I could never figure anything out because I’m just a poor artist. Oh no, no, I’m not. I’m nothing but an administrator picking out other people’s art.”

He might be shocked and hurt, but Tony doesn’t show it. “Steve, Steve,” Tony says, not deterred. He searches Steve’s expression for some clue to the hidden truths, the truths that Steve can’t even face himself. “What is going on? You know that isn’t true.”

“God, have you seen me? Do you know my luck when it comes to something about my health – I ca-.” He stops and curses. He pulls away. “No, I am not going to pity myself. I’m not going to.” 

“Hold on a second,” Tony says. He grabs Steve’s arm and forces him to stay, to confront the truth. “You don’t get to adjust, to face pain with a little bit of human weakness?”

“That’s not how I do it. Ever.” But Steve shivers as Tony grips his shoulders. Damn the tears welling in his eyes. He looks away, looks up, fighting them but failing. “I’m not going to fail her again.”

“Fail her? Fail who?” Tony keeps his hands on Steve, not releasing him, holding him, anchoring him. 

Steve chews at the words, at the truths hanging close to him, like the branches of a gnarled tree ready to rip away at the fabric of his soul. He’s lost in the woods. He cannot find his way, but Tony’s there, guiding him and offering him a light. “I can’t do this to her.”

“Who?” Tony whispers the word, being gentle with it.

“Ma,” Steve murmurs and then the tears do fall and the humiliation hits him. He tumbles down and Tony follows him. “It’s my homage to her. Mine. I never give up. I promised her.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Damaged goods. You want to know damaged goods? My mother gave everything for me. Everything. Worked herself to the bone. There wasn’t any insurance. She did everything for me. Every time I went to the hospital and there were more bills, she never complained. And then she died, because we couldn’t afford the medical bills. She told me to always stand up. It was my last promise to her. Always keep going. She always believed in me even though I’m damaged goods. So don’t you tell me about damaged goods.”

“So you don’t get to breathe? To take a moment to mourn what’s happened?” Tony shakes his head. “Is that how rigid your mother was? She didn’t let you feel, didn’t let you fail?”

“That’s not what I said,” Steve lashes back.

“No, so tell me what she meant?” Tony says and wraps an arm around him and brings him in close into an embrace. “What did she mean?”

“I don’t-I-.” He hisses and squeezes his eyes closed. Can he face truths that have always chased after him? Does he want to accept it?

“She meant that you can stand up, and be yourself. Didn’t she? She didn’t mean that you had to keep going and suffering. What she meant was that you were worth it, to fight for, and to continue the fight.” Tony says. “I know that’s what she meant, because that’s what you’ve been telling me. All along you’ve been there for me, telling me to stand up, and that I’m worth it. You are too. You’re worth it. Damaged, sure. We both are, but worthless? Not a chance.”

The tears come freely and unencumbered. He should feel embarrassed, ashamed of his weakness, but Tony holds him and loves him. His world cannot be fixed with a simple hug but it can be shored up by Tony’s support. He clings to Tony a little too tight, but Tony never complains, only reciprocates the feeling. 

Eventually Tony gets him on his feet and out of the studio, quietly closing the door. Steve wonders if he should just lock and forget it. Tony must read his mind because he says, “I wasn’t kidding when I said that you need to refocus your work. That you need to take some days to work in the studio.”

“Tony, I can’t.” He picks up his hand. It’s weak and aches. 

“Is that what the doctor said?” Tony asks and when Steve doesn’t immediately answer, he repeats, “Is that what the doctor said?”

“No, not exactly.” Steve looks away from Tony. “Physical therapy, you know all that stuff.”

“Well, then physical therapy is what you’ll do. Shit, I’m doing cardio physical therapy. You can do it for your hand.” Tony doesn’t waste another minute on arguing with Steve. “We’ll set something up for this week. Get you rolling right away.”

“Tony -.” He stops when Tony glances at him with a face determined to change the world. “Okay. Sure.”

“That’s not really the can do spirit I expect from you, but-.” Tony shrugs. “I’ll take what I can get. So,” Tony says and leans into Steve as they stand outside the studio. He kisses Steve’s forehead. “Would you like to see if I have a magic dick?”

Steve almost chokes. “Wh-what?”

Tony holds Steve’s hands and peers at him with such adoration Steve thinks his heart might burst. “Well, I got a go ahead from the doctor. And not to diminish your current issue, but I would like to show you how much you mean to me and how much you will continue to mean to me for the rest of my life.”

Steve swallows down the idea of _rest of my life_. The heat and wonder of it warms his cheeks and he realizes just being with Tony lightens his world, relieves some of his burden, transforms his perceptions. “Rest of your life?”

“Let’s just say that being thunderstruck is something I kind of like. A lot.” 

“Yeah, I kind of like it too,” Steve says. In everyday life, truths aren’t something Steve thinks about or considers, but in the last half hour truth and how it shapes his life materialized as if it was a presence, a persona. Like some kind of deity, truth comes to him and he cannot deny its power or its potency. “I really do.”

“Then let me take you and show you how much you mean to me, how much I’m going to stand by you and help you through this, the same way you helped me through my heart attack.” It’s the first time Tony’s really acknowledged what happened to him in such a logical, almost clinical way but at the same time linking it to their lives intertwined together.

The clouds in Steve’s mind disperse. He sees clearer, more intently. His emotions are strung tight but he wants nothing more than to relax into Tony’s embrace. He answers Tony with a kiss. Deep. Abiding. Whole. 

Soon after, Steve finds himself, stripped of his clothes and his fears. They’ve fallen into bed, Tony hovering over him with his mouth bruised and wanting from Steve’s kiss. Tony slips a hand to touch Steve’s face, cupping his jaw. His gaze skips and jumps before it finally comes to rest to focus on Steve’s eyes. 

“I meant it what I said. I love you, Steve Rogers.”

Even though they’ve done little but kiss, Steve’s breath comes in tiny pants. “I meant it too. I love you, Tony Stark.”

A glimmer of a spark glitters in Tony’s eyes. “Then I think we need to do something about that.”

Tentative is not a word Steve would use to describe Tony’s ravenous appetite. There’s no fear or hesitation, Tony throws all caution to the wind. It almost makes Steve laugh as they wrestle and tangle against one another. The utter joy and excitement thrumming through Tony infects Steve, and he cannot hold back. He cannot let the anxieties of the day follow him into this perfect place. He surrenders to the utter delight and elation radiating from Tony like the rays of the sun. 

And Steve learns.

He learns that what Tony showed him when they’d first made love was only the beginning. Then it had been a seeking, a moment of discovery. It is something more, something flawless like a jewel faceted and crystalline in its perfection. It isn’t the start anymore, but something maturing, growing, developing into a force between them, with weight and substance. Love might be an ethereal, an almost elusive emotion, but these acts as they kiss, and lick, and thrust, these acts are something sacred and whole. Something that binds and weaves into a tapestry. Something that heightens every nerve ending and shouts out as they moan and cry and weep for more. As Steve explores and Tony reveals, Steve offers more of himself, vulnerable and yearning. They move together, kissing and embracing and tasting and shuddering with desire. The truth shifts – it isn’t something terrible or painful, but something bright and brilliant in its aspect. Tony becomes part of the definition of Steve’s truth.

Damaged goods. Tony used those words. Steve echoed them. They are all damaged in some ways. Broken, a little fragmented and cracked. When they embrace and hold one another after, Steve checks on Tony’s heart, his head laying on his lover’s chest to listen to the steady beat. Tony in turn holds Steve’s weakened hand, caressing it and kissing it. 

Later, when they go to meet Jett, Ian dashes across the gardens of the little park to hug his sister. Steve spots that haunted look in Jett’s eyes, the one he’s seen in Ian’s own expression. And when he looks up at Tony, Steve recognizes that his lover sees it too. Only Tony sees it because of experience and trauma of his own. 

“Damaged goods, huh?” Steve whispers as he squeezes Tony’s hand. 

Tony shrugs and nods. “Yeah, I think so.”

“It’s good, though, you know?” Steve says. “It’s okay to be a little damaged in the end.”

“Or even at the beginning,” Tony says with a halfcocked brow and a grin that promises so much more.

THE END

The Future -

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> The song Steve sings to Ian can be found [here](http://songsinirish.com/dun-do-shuil-lyrics)


End file.
